Tempus Fidgets
by HardlyFatal
Summary: BtVS-PotC. Buffy gets tossed into the past once again, but this time Dawn gets dragged along. She's not so keen on the primitive lifestyle, but she's always loved a man in uniform...
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This is the sequel, mainly from Dawn's POV, of No Rest for the Weary. If you haven't read that one first, I strongly suggest you hit the "back" button and go read that because this one will make NO SENSE WHATSOEVER if you don't know the basics.

Please keep in mind that Dawn is scarcely 20 years old during this story, and consequently will be acting less than perfectly mature at times.

Many warm thanks to the members of my Yahoo group for their marvelous support and enthusiasm. This story is dedicated to all 650 of you.

**Tempus Fidgets, Chapter 1   
**by CinnamonGrrl 

Dawn was surprised they'd waited so long to get married, to be honest.

Buffy had returned from her holiday with a man in tow. Captain James Norrington was a tall, lean, severe man with a thin clamped lips and eyes that could skewer you at thirty paces. An officer in the British Royal Navy, everything about him from his clipped speech to his erect posture spoke of a man in utter control of himself, his surroundings, and quite possibly a few of the laws of physics as well. He was pretty much the polar opposite of everyone Buffy had ever expressed any romantic interest in, ever.

And thus it was with immense surprise that Giles, Dawn, Xander and Willow had arrived at Cleveland's international airport to find him wrapped around Buffy in a liplock so passionate even the experienced Watcher had blushed.

It would appear that some sort of time anomaly had picked Buffy, sending her into the past where she met (rescued, actually) a previous incarnation of James. Stranded in the 17th century for three days, Buffy had fallen hard for him, and had been devastated when she'd been returned to her own time, alone.

But fate had provided for its primary Chosen One; not long after Buffy had come back to 2005, she had met her love's most recent incarnation. James the Second had been a little confused over his instantaneous feelings for Buffy—as well as the enthusiastic way she'd latched onto him—but rallied with what the Scoobies would soon learn was customary aplomb and resilience.

Now that he had something in his life besides duty and work, James decided to rethink how he pursued his career. And rethink it he had: within three months of returning to his post, Buffy at his side to head up the Council's newly-hatched training academy for fledgling Slayers, James had requested and received a transfer to a London-bound position that would not require extravagant amounts of time spent away from his lovely new fiancée.

Yes, fiancée. They would never be quite sure, though many spirited "discussions" had been had on the issue, of what came first: their engagement or the conception of their first child. James, ever the practical one, was sure that they had made Joyce sometime in the week prior to his proposal, but sentimental Buffy was convinced that their daughter was the direct result of the strenuous appreciation she showed him after allowing the ring to be placed on her finger.

Whenever the process was begun, it concluded almost a year to the day that Buffy had plopped herself in James' lap on the verandah of The Port Royal Inn and sobbed all over him in delight that he'd come back for her. "And only three hundred years late," she liked to say whilst beaming a smile in his direction.

Their wedding had been delayed for a variety of reasons. Buffy hadn't wanted to get married whilst pregnant, claiming that she had no desire to resemble the Michelin tire man in her wedding photos. Then, after Joyce was born, she hadn't wanted to get married until she'd worked off the "baby blubber" as she called it and could fit into that slinky little strapless Vera Wang she'd had her eye on since the day after James had proposed. Then it was summer, and since they'd decided to have the ceremony in Jamaica, it was too hot during the summer and so it was finally decided that October was the perfect time.

Thus it was a sizeable group that arrived in the Kingston airport on the idyllic Caribbean isle, piled into taxis, and were brought to the resort that had once upon a time been not only the Governor's mansion but also the ramshackle location of where Buffy and James the First had met and fallen in love.

The wedding went off without a hitch, unless you were inclined to count Joyce's enthusiastic, at-the-top-of-her-lungs request for lunch as a hitch. No one seemed to mind too much, however. Giles gave Buffy away; Dawn, Willow, and James' sister Amelia served as bridesmaids whilst Xander along with James' two brothers were his ushers. The ceremony was performed in the middle of a little stand of palm trees on the beach at the bottom of an embankment on the resort's grounds; then Xander and Dawn took Joyce for the night whilst her parents enjoyed their first evening of married life.

For a few days, everything was mellow. Buffy didn't stop beaming even once, and even James' tiny smile was observed, though he would later deny it vehemently, to widen a full quarter of an inch. Then they decided to visit the old fort in Kingston where James the First had run the military aspects of Jamaica, and all hell broke loose (though not literally. When one is dealing with Slayers, it's prudent to note when one is simply using a turn of phrase, or when hell is in actuality breaking loose. In this case, it is the former).

Dawn, Buffy, and Joyce had continued the tour with the guide whilst James, his brothers, Xander and Giles chose to remain behind in the powder magazine to slobber over the old-fashioned weaponry, man-style.

The barracks was a long, narrow room with two rows of metal cots lining the walls. One cot had been set up as it had been in period; bearing a thin mattress, it was made with coarse linen sheets, a single sad little pillow, and a blanket scratchier and less flexible than Astroturf. There wasn't a lot of room allotted to each man: a battered table between this cot and the next held an artful little vignette of a soldier's private life, and a stout trunk, bound with leather and brass nails, squatted at the foot. A long coat, somewhat flashier than the period gear worn by the tour guides, hung on a peg on the walls along with a triangular hats trimmed with plumy feathery things and a bit of gold trim.

All of a sudden, Joyce began fussing. "Go on without us," Buffy told the tour guide as the normally sunny child's fretting turning into a full-gauge wailing. "We'll catch up in a minute." When the rest of the tour had moved on to the next room, she spread out the diaper pad on the cot and began to check Joyce's diaper. It wasn't easy; the baby was crying so hard her little face was bright red, and her entire body quivered from the force of it.

"What's wrong with her?" Dawn asked, concerned and hovering over them.

"I don't know," Buffy said grimly, "but I don't feel so well myself." Her face was pale beneath its tan, and perspiration dotted her forehead. "I'm nauseous, and my head hurts." Joyce's diaper was fine; she closed it back up and fastened the tiny outfit, frowning.

Dawn became alarmed. Buffy just didn't **get** sick. Ever. "Give her to me," she urged, "and lay down." It was a mark of how unwell Buffy felt that she actually obeyed, handing Joyce over to Dawn and flopping weakly to the cot.

The sunlight, what there was of it, that managed to struggle through the tiny, dirty windows dimmed, and the air thickened somehow. A sense of deep foreboding filled Dawn, and she unconsciously clutched Joyce tighter. "Buffy, something's happening," she said worriedly, but received no answer.

Transferring all Joyce's weight to one arm, she reached out to jostle Buffy's arm, which hung limply over the edge of the cot. "Buffy!" she exclaimed as a bolt of lightning lit up the room, followed with unnerving closeness by a crash of thunder. "Buffy!" But her sister was out cold, and Joyce was shrieking at the noise and blaring brightness of the almost unceasing lightning.

Then came a bolt that turned the whole world white, and Dawn found her breath, even her heart, had stopped for that moment between light and sound as she waited for the thunder. It seemed to never come, and she was suspended, paralyzed, senseless. Joyce was a leaden weight in her arms, and her legs seemed to melt as equilibrium pitched suddenly to the right and her stomach lurched.

Then the thunder sounded, and Dawn could move again. As she collapsed to her knees, there was just enough time to shift Joyce, screaming once more, to the side before Dawn jackknifed forward and threw up on the floor. Heart pounding, breath heaving, she wanted nothing so much as to lay her hot cheek on the cool flagstones but didn't dare let go of Joyce for fear of the baby crawling away and getting hurt.

Instead, she forced herself to sit back against the next cot, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand and hoping Buffy had remembered a bottle of water in the diaper bag. Any minute now, she was going to recover and search for it. Any minute now... in spite of Joyce's wails resounding in her ears, Dawn's eyes fluttered closed and she passed out.

Her first thought, upon being jostled awake, was _Thank God_. She didn't much care who was doing the waking— it meant that there was another person with her, and that meant she had a shot at making it out of Fort Charles alive and only slightly the worse for wear.

"Water," she croaked, not opening her eyes. "Do you have any water?" There was the mutter of several voices as a few people conferred with each other, and a bottle was held to her lips as someone's arm came under her to lift her to a sitting position. Dawn gulped thirstily, not realizing until she'd taken several deep swallows that it wasn't water she was drinking.

Not even close.

"Gah!" she yelled, sputtering on the last mouthful of what seemed like thick beer. "Are you trying to **kill **me?"

"If we were, miss, we'd not use ale to do the deed," commented a voice. It was a deep, rich, male voice and Dawn's eyes flew open to find quite a few men standing around the cot, staring down at her. It seemed that the entire tour guide staff of the fort-museum had found them. Oddly, every one of them was white, when she distinctly remembered that most of the tour guides were black. Kinda weird, but there was no time to worry about that now.

Most were wearing long, bright red coats over light trousers; one, quite handsome in spite of the wacky George Washington wig he was sporting, was in a long coat of dark blue and held Joyce, gently bouncing her. The baby had recovered her good mood and grinned daftly at him when he tickled her chin. "Is this little poppet yours, or hers?" he asked, revealing he was the owner of the sexy voice, and nodded toward where Buffy was just beginning to stir on the cot.

"Hers," Dawn replied, and tried to struggle to her feet. Her voice was raw-sounding, no doubt the result of chugging a quart of the so-called "ale". Dawn was inclined to name it "lighter fluid", herself. One of the red-coated men, a portly fellow with a round face that was florid under his wig, immediately stepped forward to help her. She was grateful for his strong arm, and clutched it even after she was up because her legs felt about as sturdy as pudding. "Buffy," she said, reaching out to shake her sister's shoulder. "Wake up."

"What's going on?" Buffy mumbled, propped herself on her elbows and staring up at the men surrounding them. "Where's Joyce? Who're these guys?"

"Joyce is fine," Dawn assured her sister. She looked around them, noting how the previously deserted barracks were now looking more lived-in and less preserved than it had at the start of the tour, and a rather scary suspicion crept into her mind. "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."

Buffy flinched at that, her gaze jerking from Dawn to the blue-coated guy holding the now-smiling Joyce. "What year is it?" she demanded. "Is it 1695?"

He frowned. "Certainly not." Buffy sagged back onto the pillow in relief, until he continued. "It's 1697."

Buffy moaned.

Dawn let go of the soldier's arm and let gravity pull her to sit heavily on the edge of the cot Buffy was on, dropping her head into one hand whilst the other reached blindly for her sister's. Their hands connected, and they twined their fingers, gripping tightly. "Crap," Dawn muttered.

Buffy sat up, her eyes fixed on the guy in blue. "James Norrington," she said, arms outstretched to take her daughter. "Is he here? I need to see him, right away."

The man blinked over Joyce's curly head as he handed her over. "Not at the moment," he replied, his face intensely curious. "Lieutenant Gillette and I have been left in command in his absence."

Buffy sighed. "You're Groves, then," she stated, unsurprised when he nodded slowly. "When will he be back?"

"We expect his return within the next day or so," he said. "What is this about?"

"It's personal," Buffy said flatly, her tone brooking no argument. "Dawn—"

Dawn paused in chugging from the water bottle she'd located in the diaper bag. "Mmph?"

"Did you bring anything valuable with you? Jewellery?"

Dawn gaped at her sister. "Why?"

Buffy levered her legs over the side of the cot. "Because I think we're going to be here a few days, and we'll have to pay for somewhere to stay." She smirked a little. "Can't just crash at the governor's mansion like my last visit."

Lieutenant Groves frowned. "I'm afraid, miss, that that will be impossible. We cannot release you until we know how you came to be in a restricted section of the fort." He nodded to a few of the soldiers around them; the one who'd helped Dawn before once more took her arm, this time to restrain rather than assist, and another helped Buffy stand before latching his hand around her upper arm.

Buffy and Dawn exchanged a look; Dawn knew her sister was contemplating beating the shit out of the lot of them, and tensed herself to take Joyce and hide until the carnage was over, but then Buffy's body language loosened.

"Okay," she said at last. "Let's go find Gillette and get some tea and crank up the repression. We'll discuss this like proper English people."

Groves' nicely shaped mouth twitched once, as if he were restraining a smile. "A fine idea," he said. "I think you've lain in Mr. Murtogg's cot quite long enough." He glanced in the direction of one of the men in red surrounding the bed— a skinny fellow who promptly blushed scarlet.

"I don't mind," Mr. Murtogg said, then blushed harder when all eyes swung to him. "That is to say, it's my pleasure for her to be in my bed. I mean— err— "

"Hush, you," said the heavyset holding Dawn upright. "You're just digging yourself in deeper."

"Perhaps it's time for you to find your post, Murtogg," Groves suggested, this time unable to prevent his grin, and Dawn goggled at him for a moment. Though the wig was white, his eyebrows were dark, and his dark eyes sparkled with humour as he returned the hasty, awkward salute of the mortified Murtogg as he fled. "That goes for the rest of you," he directed the others. "Finding a woman in Murtogg's cot, though extraordinary, is no excuse for shirking your duties."

"Now, then," he said to the women, cocking out his elbow for Dawn to take and thus make room for Buffy to move out from the narrow space between the cots. "Mr. Mullroy, if you will be so kind to assist Miss…?"

"Summers," Buffy replied after a moment, taking the arm Mr. Mullroy offered after Dawn transferred herself to Groves. "I'm Buffy Summers, and this is my sister Dawn."

Groves lifted the hand on his arm to his lips, giving a little bow over it. "Delighted," he said, nodding politely at Buffy. Mr. Mullroy bobbed his head at both of them, tugging on the front of his triangle hat. "Shall we?"

Mullroy was dispensed to locate Lieutenant Gillette, and that gentleman soon arrived, with many questions on his lips. "You say they just appeared?" he asked Groves.

"No one actually saw it," Groves replied. "The west barracks was empty, all the men at their posts or otherwise occupied, when suddenly the sound of an infant crying drew attention." He nodded toward where Joyce now peacefully slept in her mother's arms. "Upon investigation, it was found that Miss Summers the elder was unconscious in Mr. Murtogg's cot. Miss Summers the younger was sitting on the floor by the cot, holding the child and though conscious, seemed quite insensible for several minutes."

"I see," Gillette said, though it was clear he didn't. He turned to the women. "And your side of the tale?" he prompted. "I would dearly love to know how you were able to enter Fort Charles in spite of all the sentries and guards. Why did you go to the barracks? Would not the officers' quarters have been more comfortable, were you in the mood for a nap?"

He was mocking them. Dawn wasn't so bothered by it, choosing to roll her eyes at him in obvious disdain—thus earning her an almost-smile from Lieutenant Groves—but Buffy was seriously starting to steam. Dawn didn't know what to say, and so kept silent, looking to her sister for her lead.

"I can't tell anyone but Commodore Norrington," Buffy said flatly. "And don't bother harping at me, because I'm not changing my mind." Gillette turned to Dawn, his mouth opening to speak, and she continued. "And neither is she."

Dawn nodded, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring. "That's right," she confirmed before shooting a glare at Groves. "And you can stop laughing at me any time, now." For some reason, the man had been smiling at her for the past five minutes, as if she were the funniest thing he'd ever seen in his entire life.

"Certainly," he said, "My apologies." But his smile only widened, earning him another eyeroll from her.

"Then it would appear we are at loggerheads, Misses Summers," Gillette said testily. "I cannot release you without knowing your means and purpose in infiltrating an encampment of the Crown. You will not provide me with this information. Customarily, the result to this dilemma would be for me to clap you in irons and toss you into a cell to await the arrival of the Commodore, since it is to him only that you will speak."

He paused, gaze fixed on Joyce as if resenting her for complicating matters. "However, there is the matter of the child to consider. I cannot in good conscience put her in a holding cell with you. Unless," he mused, tapping his chin with his finger. "Yes, that is what I will do."

"I'm not sure I like the look on your face, Trev," Groves said mildly.

"I'm positive I don't," Buffy said, her eyes narrow. "Spit it out."

"I will place the child with one of the townswomen. She will care for her whilst you are incarcerated, and if the Commodore deems you are to be released, then she will be returned to you." He paused and smiled a little, pleased with his ingenious solution. "What say you to that?"

Buffy waited a long moment before replying, a moment during which Dawn began to laugh, a fine edge of hysteria to the sound. "I say," she replied quietly, "that you can try to take my daughter from me, but you'd damn well be prepared to lose every man in this fort trying." In the silence following that extraordinary comment, she added, "and James won't thank you for it, either. He'll probably beat the crap out of you."

Gillette gaped at her. She met his stare steadily. Whilst they were thus engaged, Groves addressed Dawn. "Your sister seems quite familiar with the Commodore, to use his Christian name."

She nodded, apprehension knotting her stomach as she watched Buffy's staring contest with Gillette. "They've known each other for a few years now. Met in Port Royal, at the Governor's mansion." It was all true, after all. Dawn was just omitting a few of the more pertinent details, is all.

Groves nodded. "And your sister's name... it is **Miss** Summers, is it?" He seemed to be prodding for something, but Dawn couldn't think of what.

"Yes," she replied, mystified.

"Not Mrs., then? In spite of having a child?"

Um. "Buffy?" Dawn said, and Buffy dragged herself away from scaring Lieutenant Gillette to pay attention. "Groves wants to know if you're a Miss or a Mrs."

Buffy blinked. "I'm actually a Mrs.," she told him, extending her hand and displaying her three-day-old wedding ring. "You can call me Mrs. Summers."

"What is your actual married surname?" Gillette asked, a trifle belligerent. He was not used to being stared down by women a foot shorter than he, apart from his own dear mother, and the idea rankled a bit.

"You can call me Mrs. Summers," Buffy repeated calmly, and Dawn had to admire her steely will. "So, what's it going to be, guys? What are you going to do with us?"

Gillette once again opened his mouth to speak, but Groves stood. "A moment outside, if you will, Lieutenant?" he said, and followed the other man out of the room.

Whilst the men were gone, Buffy noticed that Joyce's diaper needed changing, and with a sly grin, laid out the diaper pad in the middle of Gillette's desk. Dawn just began laughing.

"You're really not trying at all to get on his good side, are you?" she asked between giggles. It wasn't that funny, really, but she was nervous. Give her a situation you could fight your way out of, demons to kill, and she was calm as anything but dealing with issues like bureaucratic regulations and stuffy English soldiers who were far more impressed with themselves than they really ought to be, and Dawn felt like a fish out of water.

Buffy was just holding up the dirty diaper when the men returned, and the expression on Gillette's face was priceless.

"With the number of siblings your parents saw fit to give you, Trev, I'm surprised you're so squeamish," Groves commented as he held out his hand to dispose of the tidily-wrapped little bundle.

"It's precisely because of all of them that I'm squeamish," Gillette snapped. "If I ever see another soiled nappy again, it'll be too soon." He took a deep breath, seeming to be trying very hard indeed to control his temper. "We have decided, or rather Lieutenant Groves has decided and managed to talk me into it despite my better judgment, that you shall be given one of the spare officer's quarters. You will not leave it without escort. Meals shall be brought to you, and guards shall be posted outside the door."

"Sounds good," Buffy replied, hoisting Joyce up. Dawn folded up the diaper pad and repacked all the supplies in the bag. "Can we go there now?"

Gillette seemed suspicious that she would agree so readily, but nodded and soon they were being barred into the modestly-sized room. There was an actual bed, however, instead of a cot, and a little table with two straight-backed wooden chairs. The window was a decent size, and the glass was clean—through it, they could see into the courtyard below.

An evening meal was brought to them, but they ate sparingly, finding they didn't have much appetite. Buffy fed Joyce some mushed peas and carrots. Whilst nursing her, Buffy peered up at Dawn, who stood by the window, staring down at a group of soldiers doing drills.

"What's going to happen?" Dawn asked, her voice pitched low so the guards outside couldn't hear.

"I don't know," Buffy replied. Her face seemed so sad at that moment as she rested her cheek against Joyce's curly head. "I don't know how I feel about seeing James again. It's him, the original him, but it's not. Not the one I married, at least. I don't know how to explain Joyce. I don't know how to explain that he's been reborn." She sighed. "I don't know how to explain anything."

Dawn sat beside Buffy and put her arm around her, pulling her in for a quick hug. "Well, we've got time to think about it, at least," she said in what she hoped was a comforting manner. "Right now, I'm pooped. Joyce is sleeping, let's us get some sleep, too."

It took some doing, but eventually they were able to arrange themselves on the narrow bed, Joyce lying comfortably on her mother's chest. They were unconscious almost immediately.

The next morning they were brought breakfast, clean clothes, and water with which to bathe. Dawn was starving, but the lure of hot water was impossible to resist—she washed herself thoroughly, then fed Joyce little bits of bread whilst Buffy washed.

Then they helped each other struggle into the long dresses—they'd contemplated simply wearing their modern clothes, but they were wrinkled and sweaty from their exertions of the previous day and they were loathe to put their nice clean bodies into dirty garments.

Buffy's dress was a little tight in the bosom—her breasts had expanded since having Joyce—but Dawn's dress fit perfectly. "Hm," Buffy said, "wonder where they found someone built like you? There can't be a lot of five-foot-nine flat-chested chicks running around Kingston."

Dawn shot her sister a sour glance. Ever since the boob fairy had visited Buffy, she hadn't stopped teasing Dawn about her own distinct lack of cleavage. "At least I'm not a midget," she retorted, starting on her breakfast, and grinned to see Buffy glower.

"I'm not a midget," she grumbled. "Beanpole."

"Dwarf," countered Dawn around a mouthful of toast.

"Titless."

"Hobbit."

Buffy gasped in horror. "I am **not** a Hobbit," she said. "My feet don't have hair on them!" She stuck one leg out to display one of the tiny appendages in contention. "Look! Completely bald!"

"You're short as a Hobbit," Dawn said reasonably, "and you eat enough to feed a family of five."

"Slayer metabolism!" Buffy cried, and threw the diaper bag at her sister's head. "Not my fault!"

Dawn ducked and it sailed harmlessly past her to collide with the figure who had just entered the room. "Oof," said Lieutenant Groves, catching the bag before it fell to the floor. "I hope that wasn't meant for me."

Buffy peered closely at him. "Yeah, it was," she said, surprising Dawn. "As punishment for that nasty eavesdropping habit you've got."

He laughed a little. "You knew I was there? How?"

"I could hear you," Buffy told him. "I can hear everything that's going on in this part of the fort."

"Is that so?" Groves commented, tilting his head to the side.

"Yeah, that's so," she answered. "So, what's on the schedule for today? Tennis, swimming? Four-course gourmet lunch followed by a massage and pedicure?"

"I thought a game of croquet wouldn't be amiss," he replied, earning himself two stares. "I was just getting into the mood of the joke," he explained.

"Well, don't," Dawn grumbled. "It's not funny when you're making fun of someone who starts playing along."

"So sorry to spoil your fun," he replied, and there was that smile again, like he'd never seen something so funny as Dawn before.

"Yeah, I'm sure you're all broken up over it."

"I am!" he insisted. "And to prove the depths of my remorse, I shall take you on a walk round the fort." His eyes were the loveliest amber-brown, Dawn noticed at that point, like whiskey, and he was actually pretty good-looking. His shoulders in that blue uniform were broad, and had she ever seen anything as fine as his long, slender, muscled legs in buff-coloured trousers and tall black boots? No, she didn't think she had.

A discreet cough distracted them from their mutual reverie, and Dawn turned to find Buffy watching them with a rather amused smile on her face.

"Would you care to join us, Mrs. Summers?" Groves asked politely.

"No," she replied, "I feel the urge to stay and see if I can catch a nap. Sleeping with Miss Bony Elbows here isn't the most restful night I've ever had." She plunked Joyce in Dawn's arms, popped the watermelon hat on her daughter's head, and practically pushed them all out the door.

"My elbows aren't all that bony," Dawn felt compelled to say as they stood outside the room. Joyce squirmed and grabbed a handful of her aunt's long hair, stuffing it happily into her mouth and chewing.

"I will take your word for it," he replied gravely, but there was still the hint of mirth around his nicely-shaped mouth. "Shall we?" He held out an elbow of his own, and she slipped her free hand into its crook, allowing him to lead her outside.

Dawn felt unaccountably nervous, and was glad that he carried the bulk of the conversation. In spite of the wig, she was finding him far more attractive than was safe or wise. She was probably going to return to the 21st century within the next few days, and she doubted his latest incarnation would simply appear as James' had to Buffy—Dawn wasn't the Chosen One. Fate didn't give her special gifts. She was just a regular person, or as regular a person as one could be when one was the Key.

Then he turned to her, and pressed her hand on his arm more firmly against him. "I have something to tell you," Lieutenant Groves said, his face and tone very serious, and she felt her heart leap into her throat. Talk about working fast.

"Yes?" Dawn said breathlessly. Would it be a declaration of love? Perhaps, even, a marriage proposal? Not that she could, or even would, accept but wouldn't it be the most romantic thing **ever**?


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** thanks for your patience in updating this! I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the first. Chapter 3 should be coming out by the end of the week, perhaps Sunday (8/8/04).

**Tempus Fidgets, chapter 2  
**by CinnamonGrrl

"I have something to tell you," Lieutenant Groves said, his face and tone very serious, and she felt her heart leap into her throat. Talk about working fast.

"Yes?" Dawn said breathlessly. Would it be a declaration of love? Perhaps, even, a marriage proposal? Not that she could, or even would, accept but wouldn't it be the most romantic thing **ever**?

"Commodore Norrington has arrived," Groves told Dawn, nodding in the direction of the courtyard behind her.

_What?_ "What?" she said. That was it? No words of undying adoration? "Oh."

"You were expecting... something else?" Groves asked, leaning forward rather closely to speak into her ear, in a tone so amused she wondered how it was he wasn't actually laughing out loud.

"Not at all," Dawn replied loftily, shifting Joyce so the baby was between them. He did laugh, then, and she wondered if he knew **everything** she was thinking as she felt her cheeks warm.

"Lieutenant Groves," said a voice that was positively arctic in tone, "may I be so bold as to inquire exactly what you are doing with this woman in the middle of the yard? For I assume you are both capable and willing to explain why you are neglecting your duties—I know for a fact you should be supervising the inventory and repair of cannonry on the east wall—to fraternize with a civilian, who most certainly ought not to be in the rear yard."

Dawn knew that voice. Only one person was able to deliver snark and condescension in equal measures, and throw in a side of resigned and undeserving patience for good measure. She pasted a pleasantly neutral smile on her face and turned around.

Commodore James Norrington was wearing a white curled wig, feathery triangle hat from hell, and long blue coat with enough gold braid to qualify as his own float in a Mardi Gras parade. His face was identical to the James that Dawn knew, but his eyes were a paler, even frostier shade of blue, and his features lacked the smidgen of warmth that Buffy and then Joyce had brought into his life. For a moment, she felt absolutely, hideously sorry for him and found herself blinking away tears.

"Are you well, Miss Summers?" Lieutenant Groves inquired solicitously.

"Just the sun in my eyes," she said, offering a weak smile and dropping a kiss onto Joyce's head. She thought she detected a flicker of recognition in James' eyes at hearing her name, and wanted to shriek that Buffy was there, that she herself was holding his daughter—sort of—but forced herself to simply stand there sedately.

"Am I to receive an explanation for Miss... Summers' presence here, or shall we stand around all day?" James asked. His tones were clipped, the hallmark of the busy man for whom time is very valuable.

"Actually, sir, we've had a bit of a mystery on our hands since yesterday," Groves said easily. "Miss Summers and her sister seemed to simply appear in the barracks last afternoon, and have refused to speak of the whys and wherefores with anyone but yourself."

Something sharpened in those pale eyes, then; a suspicion that was tinged with a hope so wild Dawn felt like weeping again. "Is that so," was all he said, however, managing to sound supremely bored. But then Joyce stirred, removing her floppy-brimmed watermelon hat, and waved it at him.

Her face was still too infantile and chubby for anyone to discern which parent she most resembled. Her hair was James', dark and unruly, but her eyes were pure Buffy: deep green with startling gold flecks and a darker ring around the iris.

James's own eyes widened in the only outward symptom of shock he would reveal; then his lips clamped tighter and he stepped back. "Bring them to my office," he said. "Immediately." Then he turned on his heel and strode away, the gravel crunching noisily under his feet.

Buffy was smiling when Dawn and Groves returned to the room, but it quickly faded upon hearing Dawn's blurted-out words.

"James is here," she said. Buffy blinked, her hand flying to her throat. "It's... been a long time since they've seen each other," Dawn explained to Groves, who was obviously confused by Buffy's reaction to the news.

Buffy rummaged through the diaper bag for a comb, and ran it through her hair. "Do I look okay?" she asked shakily. "Should I put on some makeup? Will—"

Dawn took the comb from her sister's trembling fingers. "Buffy," she said, "It's James. No matter what, it's James. It doesn't matter how you look. He'll think you're beautiful. He always does."

Buffy stared up at her a long moment, then nodded, squaring her shoulders. "Yes," she said firmly, and held out her arms for Joyce. "Let's go."

Groves once more escorted Dawn, with Buffy just behind, through the fort until he stopped at a door. Knocking perfunctorily, he pushed it open and gestured for Dawn to enter. James was seated behind his desk, every inch the commodore. His only concession to having come inside was the removal of his hat, which now perched on a peg on the wall; he still wore his wig, coat, cravat, and approximately eighty other layers of clothing.

He stood when Dawn entered, nodding to her, but then his gaze went past her to the woman who followed her in. "Buffy," he said, but made no move toward her.

"Hi, James," she replied, offering a shaky smile. "It's good to see you again."

He nodded solemnly. "And you," he said. His tone was polite, but there was a throbbing undercurrent of emotion that was sending chills up Dawn's spine. She shivered.

"Commodore," exclaimed Gillette as he dashed into the room, breathing a little hard from running. "I came as soon as I learnt you were back. There are—oh." He cut himself short upon seeing the two women. "Never mind, then."

"The matter is well in hand, Lieutenant," James said, his gaze never wavering from Buffy's face. "Might I trouble you to take Miss Summers for a turn round the fort whilst I speak privately with..."

"Mrs. Summers," Buffy supplied.

"**Mrs.** Summers," he finished, his voice silky as it caressed the syllables. Another shiver, and Groves was watching her oddly.

"Of course, sir," Gillette agreed, and before she knew it, Dawn was whirled from the room on his arm.

Damn. And she'd hoped to be able to watch their reunion, too.

Buffy's arms tightened around Joyce a fraction as she stood across the room from James. He hadn't moved a muscle, except to speak, since she'd entered. It felt odd to be with him again; though her husband was virtually identical to his predecessor, still he was the product of a 20th century upbringing. The man before her was 17th century through and through, and especially so now that there was no extenuating circumstance like being stranded in an abandoned mansion. James would not make a move toward her, this time.

"This child is yours, then, and not your sister's?" he asked at last.

"Yes, she's mine."

"And how long has passed for you since you returned?"

"Almost two years," Buffy replied, feeling like she was being interrogated. Her suspicion that he was wondering if he could possibly have fathered Joyce was confirmed at the slight slump of his shoulders as he did the math.

"You are married now, I assume, to the father of this child?" His stance did not relax at all as he clasped his hands behind his back. She nodded. "And your new name?"

She took a deep breath. He'd believed her about being the Slayer, about travelling through time in the first place. Surely this wouldn't be so far-fetched for him to accept? "Buffy Norrington."

He drew in a sharp breath through his nose, the only indication he was surprised or that he'd even heard. "Explain."

Bored, Joyce started to fuss. Buffy eased into one of the chairs before his desk, settling Joyce on her knee before digging through the diaper bag for a toy. She handed the stuffed doll to her daughter before raising her eyes to his tall, forbidding form only a few feet away.

"I went back," she began. "After a few days, I met a man. He wouldn't leave me alone, and I was starting to get angry. But then he said that he wanted me, and I looked harder at him." She took a deep breath and smiled at his expression of puzzlement. "It was you, James. You came back to me, like you promised you would."

"I do not understand," he said in a low voice.

"Your soul, James. Your soul was reborn into the body of one of your brother's descendants." She jiggled her knee to bounce Joyce up and down. "Your soul guided you to find me at The Port Royal Inn, after I returned from this time."

"My soul."

She nodded. "He's nearly identical, that James, to how you are now. A captain in the Navy, obsessed with the Bermuda triangle..." She had to laugh a little at that hobby of his. "He loves his work, considers it a calling rather than a job, but was happy to change things once I got pregnant, so he wasn't gone so much. He's still got that dry sense of humour, and the deadpan face. I was crying like a big idiot at our wedding, and he was so calm and cool the whole time. I only got him to admit later how nervous he'd been by tickling him." She smiled at the happy memory.

"And the child?"

"Her name is Joyce, after my mother," Buffy told him. "She was conceived the night James asked me to marry him, though he won't admit it." Another smile. "No one can believe how good he is with her; he can diaper her better than I can. And he hurries home every night to give her her bath and put her to bed; I know he feels bad he doesn't see her since he's at work, but he tries to make it up at night and on the weekends."

"You love him," James stated. His voice sounded... hard, like something in him had dried up.

"I love **you**, James," Buffy replied, startled. "You now, you then... it's still you." She ventured a smirk. "Even if you're wearing a wig that makes you look like the world's largest Q-tip. I love you no matter what."

James was standing before her almost before she could blink, his hands hard on her arms as he hauled her upright, but still careful not to squash the child she held. "I have been... disconsolate without you," he muttered, his eyes searching hers. "I never thought to see you again, and certainly not—" his gaze dropped to Joyce's curly dark head, "--under these circumstances."

"She's not a circumstance, James, she's your daughter," Buffy said, frowning, but then he was kissing her, kissing her like it would save his life. Her mouth opened beneath his, the familiar taste of him bringing tears to her eyes. It had only been a day since they'd been flung into the past, a day since she'd seen her husband, but it had seemed like forever.

A sticky little hand on her cheek made her pull back. Joyce was patting Buffy's face in the way she did to try and gain her mother's distracted attention. "Guh guh guh," Joyce said happily, then reached to pull on a little of the eight miles of gold trim adorning James' uniform.

"You have had a child," he said, his voice a little awed. "You love him enough to have a child with him."

"With **you**," Buffy corrected absently. "Look at that nose, James. Who else's could she be?"

His arm came around her in that eventual way of his, as if he'd considered both pros and cons of embracing her and found the action acceptable. His other hand came up to touch Joyce's hair, then the tip of the aforementioned nose. "He... I... look the same?"

Buffy snuggled deeper against him. He smelt a little different now, of bay rum and spice, whereas James the Second smelt of the Dolce and Gabbana cologne she'd given him for Christmas last year. Still, she had no complaints—underlying it all was the scent of **him** she adored. "Identical, except your hair is lighter and your eyes are darker. And not much, just a little."

"Extraordinary," he breathed, eyes closing as he pressed a kiss to her temple. "You are extraordinary. She is extraordinary."

Buffy laughed in relief, glad he was taking it all so well. "The word's getting old, James. Try a new one."

"How do you feel about 'beautiful'?" he asked seriously. "Or 'perfect'?"

She laughed again. "Those are two really good words." She reached up to touch the beloved planes of his face; he closed his eyes in bliss. "What have you been doing since I left?"

His eyes opened again, and latched onto her, pale but intense. "Working," he replied. "As ever. It's not been easy, carving out a new capitol city after Port Royal's destruction. We lost a lot of people. But Kingston is a fine little town, and soon shall be quite impressive, I believe."

She saw for the first time the fine lines round his eyes. He was almost thirty-seven years old, and in this century they didn't have things like sunscreen to help prevent premature aging. "And what about your love life?" she asked lightly, wanting to tease him a little. "Been courting any pretty girls?"

His brows raised in incredulity. "Even were there the time, I have not the inclination," he said repressively. "None seem able to compare with the brazen trollop whose acquaintance I made in Port Royal several years ago."

Buffy smiled, even though inside she was incredibly sad for him. "Don't spend your whole life alone, James," she whispered, resting her head on his chest. "I won't be here long, you know. You have to move on. I can't stand the idea of you by yourself forever."

"Shh," he said, and kissed her again, and again. Thus it was that Dawn returned with Lieutenants Gillette and Groves in tow, arguing with the former about something as Groves knocked on the door and opened it.

"I'm telling you," Dawn insisted. "There's no nutrition in that crap. Even if your teeth stay intact, you're not getting anything out of it but a raging case of constipation."

"Hardtack has been a staple of the Royal Navy since its inception, Miss Summers," Gillette replied, frowning fiercely. "I doubt we would be the current ruler of the seas were it so totally lacking in merit as you say."

But she dismissed his statement with an airy wave. "It's either a coincidence, or a miracle," she told him, then grinned broadly at the sight of Buffy and Joyce in the protective circle of James' arms.

The lieutenants, however, were rather more surprised—some might call it "poleaxed", to be completely accurate—and went into full stiff-upper-lip mode in classic British style to hide their shock and embarrassment. James gently extricated himself from Buffy and Joyce and stepped back behind his desk.

"Lieutenant Groves," he said, "perhaps that will prevent you from entering an office before you are beckoned?"

"It shall never happen again, sir," Groves replied fervently, and Buffy had to laugh.

"They're just jealous because they're not getting smoochies, James," she told him. The lieutenants looked even more appalled at the idea of the Commodore receiving "smoochies".

"Please, sir," Gillette said, "I really should be drilling the Marines on formation—"

"And there's that inventory I've been so lax about, sir," Groves volunteered. "I really ought to go complete it."

Buffy had to bite her lip to stifle the giggle that bubbled up when James' mouth turned up at the corners in the grin that said he was about to enjoy himself at someone else's expense.

"Certainly not," he said smoothly, "I won't hear of it. You shall both join us for luncheon in my apartments. To celebrate."

"What exactly," Gillette said, shooting the evil eye at Dawn, who was outright laughing at their distress, "are we to be celebrating? Sir?" he added belatedly.

"Why, this visit by Mrs. Summers, Miss Summers, and Miss Joyce," James replied. "I feel confident that, with a little time, you shall become as glad as I to welcome them here to Fort Charles and Kingston."

"Indeed," growled Gillette when Dawn shot him a look of triumph. Groves just stared at his feet, looking like he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

James' "apartments" turned out to be a suite of luxuriously appointed rooms on the west side of the fort, overlooking the palisades dropping to the enormous harbour Kingston boasted.

"Nice place," Buffy commented.

"It's good to be the commodore," James replied modestly as a trolley bearing a quantity of food was rolled in and the sailor bearing it began setting platters on the table.

Buffy placed Joyce between her and Dawn so they could take turns tending the baby whilst they ate, and their meal was actually quite pleasant. Dawn couldn't say she was entirely fond of the stewed eel, but the cheese biscuits were delicious and the pork rouillettes practically melted in her mouth.

"I have to get the recipe for these things," she mumbled around a mouthful, her fork already full for another shoveling.

This amused James. "You can cook?" he asked, glancing toward her sister. At her nod, he continued, "A talent that does not run in the family, it would appear."

"You didn't seem to mind doing all the cooking last time," Buffy grumbled, and gave Joyce a bit of roasted squash to gum.

"I was trying to stay on your good side last time," he informed her. "I was loathe to say anything to cause your disapproval."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Please," she retorted. "You were totally okay with me getting banged up, climbing those orange trees because you were too scared. My legs were skinned for a week from that, Mr. I'm Afraid of Heights."

"I am not afraid of heights," James denied, nose lifting about an inch as he stared down it at her. "It was merely to preserve my dignity that I refused to climb trees in search of fruit."

"You're just lucky I was willing to share," Buffy told him, waving her forkful of pork at him. "I could have made you eat that shoe leather crap." She turned to Gillette on her left. "We made this godawful stew—"

"**Who** made it, madam?" James interrupted. "Who?"

"**James** made this godawful stew," she amended with another roll of the eyes, "Dried beef and hardtack, wasn't it, honey?" she asked him for confirmation, slipping into the pet name she had for her husband. James nodded carefully, and Dawn noticed how Gillette's already-sharp gaze seemed to become positively piercing.

"And how did you come to be in a situation where the Commodore would be required to cook survival rations for the two of you, Mrs. Summers?"

Uh-oh. Buffy turned to James, her eyes telling him she'd go along with whatever he said. "Do you recall, Gillette, when I was washed overboard during that storm?" Ah, so it would be the truth, then.

"Of course, sir," he replied immediately. "We'd thought you dead."

"Then why did you keep searching for me?" James asked, the curl of his mouth a little less of a smirk and more of a genuine smile as Gillette stammered a little, turning his red face down to his plate. "Mrs. Summers, too, had suffered a mishap due to the storm, and we found ourselves stranded at the governor's mansion for a period of days."

"You mean you were there with Mrs. Summers for several days? Alone?" Lieutenant Groves asked, his gaze flicking to Joyce. But James did not answer, his sole raised eyebrow making it clear that no more details were forthcoming.

"That is where we made each other's acquaintance," James said at last, and sipped at his wine, looking at no one in particular. Buffy just smiled a secret smile and continued to feed Joyce.

"So!" Dawn said, a little nervously, to fill the silence that ensued. "I sure would like to get a tour of Kingston. How about you, Buffy?"

"You can go without me," Buffy replied casually. Too casually, if you asked Dawn, who perked up and listened with suspicion as her sister continued. "I think I'd just like to hang back, play with Joyce a little, and rest."

Rest? Buffy never needed to "rest". She had more energy than a nuclear power plant. Dawn's suspicions were confirmed when James said, "Splendid idea, Mrs. Summers. Feel free to avail yourself of my apartments, so you and the little one may be as comfortable as possible, until more appropriate rooms for you and your sister can be arranged."

_They are **so** going to do it as soon as the rest of us are gone,_ she thought grouchily. This was nothing new—Buffy and James the Second were always coming up with these flimsy excuses why they couldn't do something, and would Dawn mind terribly babysitting Joyce for the night?

"Let me guess," she said, setting down her silverware with a clatter. "You find yourself kind of tired, Buffy, and don't I want to bring Joyce with me so you can take a nap?" She turned to James. "And oops! You've been working hard all day. You're tired too. Naps all around." A glower for all present. "Like I believe you're going to be sleeping. Hah."

Gillette sounded like he was choking on his tongue. Groves didn't even bother to try and hide his smile. Buffy blushed, and even James had a bit of colour high up on his cheeks. Joyce just blew a spit bubble.

"If you don't want to watch Joyce, just say so," Buffy said testily.

"It's not that, and you know it," Dawn replied. The truth was, she was jealous. Buffy had this true love thing, and it was exciting and adventurous, and the way James looked at her—no matter which James, in which century—had a way of making this funny pain rise up in Dawn's chest. She'd never had a man look at her that way, like he'd die if he didn't get to kiss her. And she wanted that. A lot. "I don't want to talk about this right now," she said, her throat tight.

"If you truly do not mind taking Joyce for a few hours," James said gently, "we would be much obliged to you. It has been a long time, and we have much to discuss." The coolness had slid from his face for a moment, and there was the new brother she'd grown to love over the past two years: a little awkward with the being-compassionate stuff, but still pretty good with it. "You could take her for a brief tour of the waterfront; the ships are certain to impress even one so little as she."

Dawn nodded jerkily and concentrated on cleaning her plate, more to keep from having to make eye contact with anyone than another reason. She felt like an idiot; English people were not big on getting emotional in public, especially with people you just met. For all that James was so like the one she knew in the 21st century, he still had never met her before. And that wasn't even mentioning Gillette and Groves...

"Though I would dearly enjoy squiring Miss Summers round the harbour," Gillette said in the most insincere tone Dawn had ever heard, "I do have a great deal to accomplish today. You'll be wanting my report of the fort during your absence, and—"

"I would be more than delighted to escort you, Miss Summers," Groves interrupted quietly. She looked up quickly, and found him watching her, his face intent. "If you will do me the honour?"

"I... um... sure," she finished lamely, aware of Buffy's pleading eyes in her peripheral vision. "When?"

"No time like the present, if you are done with your meal," James put in, dropping his napkin on the table and standing. The lieutenants rose as well. Gillette said his farewells and scampered away, and Groves waited patiently whilst Dawn readied the baby and her ever-present diaper bag for their little jaunt into town.

"Thanks, Dawnie," Buffy whispered, giving her a quick hug.

"Yeah, yeah," Dawn grumbled. "Payback's gonna be a bitch."

"Yeah, yeah," Buffy replied, and shut the door on them.

Dawn heaved a sigh, which made Joyce look up at her with wide eyes. "C'mon, baby," she said to her niece, "let's go look at some big boats."

"Ships," Lieutenant Groves corrected automatically as he led her outside. She just shot him a look. "We can take a carriage," he said, "but it would take longer if we were to walk." Unsaid were the words, "and thus leave more time for the Commodore and your sister together."

"Walking is fine, if you don't mind taking turns carrying Joyce," Dawn said as they made their way to the portcullised entrance to Fort Charles. "She's getting so big."

They walked in silence a few moments, Dawn's sandals slipping a little on the unfamiliar cobblestone of the streets. Then Groves asked, "How old is she?"

Dawn nodded and shifted her to the other side, already getting tired of holding the child's weight. "Nine months exactly, in two days. Why?"

Groves stopped and turned to face her, his eyes clear and honest. "Then there is no way she could be the child of Commodore Norrington," he said. "I believe he is under the impression that she is, and that is a deception I cannot support, Miss Summers."

Dawn's mind raced as she tried to think of something to say. She didn't want to reveal to him the weirdness that was life as a Summers woman; besides, the whole time-travel-reincarnation thing wasn't her story to tell. "Listen," she said at last, "I can't tell you the truth. Only Buffy and James can do that. But I need you to trust me when I say that Joyce **is** James'. Really, she is."

Groves stared at her a long moment, and Dawn was beginning to squirm under his steady regard until at last he nodded, then looked down at Joyce. She looked back at him, and held her little arms up. Obligingly, he took her from Dawn (much to the relief of her aching arms). "I believe you," he said, but was studying Joyce.

"Thank you," she said with a relieved smile. Disaster avoided, she thought giddily, and was pleased that Groves trusted and believed her.

"Don't get too smug," he told her, a teasing edge to his deep voice. "Look at that nose." He nodded down at Joyce, who was making a hopeless mess of his carefully-knotted cravat. "Poor child."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Thanks so much for being patient with me for this story! I have definitely not abandoned it, and I hope it continues to please and entertain youall :) Please let me know what you think of it by reviewing?

**Tempus Fidgets, chapter 3  
**by CinnamonGrrl

Two days later, the familiar, sickening feeling slammed into Buffy suddenly, without warning. One moment she was bent over a washbasin, cleaning her face, and the next she was sitting on the floor, arms wrapped tightly round her waist in an effort not to throw up all over. Her head throbbed from the loud clang made by the metal basin on the floor, and there was soapy water everywhere.

Buffy called weakly for James, but she needn't have bothered; he was already on his way, his footsteps sounding in the hallway before she'd finished saying his name. And he wouldn't have been able to hear her, anyway: the thunder and lightning that began to crash outside drowned out any feeble sound she might have been able to make.

"What happened?" he called as he ran to her. "What was that noise?" He stopped short in the doorway of the commode, hands braced on the jamb, at the sight of her sprawled across the wet tiles. "Buffy, are you hurt?"

"It's happening," she gasped, then listed sideways until she started to teeter over. "James, it's happening. Where's Joyce?"

"In the other room," he replied, his tone very calm-cool-and-collected, as one might effect in the midst of a crisis. James was on his knees and wrapping his arms around her before she could fall over completely, at a distinct loss for what to do. Just then, Joyce announced her location with a piercing cry.

Buffy lurched to her feet with his help, then pulled away and started to run back toward the lounge, James behind her demanding to know what was wrong.

"It's happening," she repeated. "The time... shift... thingy." Collapsing onto the settee, she pulled Joyce from the protective nest of blankets in which James had placed her into her arms. "Dawn," she rasped. "Where is she?"

"She said only that she was going to go torture Gillette for a while," James replied, kneeling at her feet and taking up her limp hand between his own. "Buffy, don't leave again." He swallowed hard, and she forced open her eyes to see him there, his eyes pleading with her.

The room was lit up by lightning, and thunder roared in their ears. Settling Joyce against her chest and smoothing her hand over the tiny back, trying to comfort her crying child, Buffy placed her hand against the beloved face before her.

"I have no way to stop it," she said at last. "I'm so sorry, James. At least we had these few days, at least you could meet Joyce..."

Another wave of nausea roiled over Buffy, and she breathed deeply and evenly to keep her lunch where it was. "James, I love you. Never forget that, okay?"

"I won't," he promised, gripping her hand hard. "I... I love you too." His face was so bleak, the skin stretched tightly across the bones, and Buffy knew he'd never said those words to another soul his entire life. Likely would never say them again, either.

"I know," she shouted over the loudest thunder yet, and the sound of Joyce screaming. Then all that sound stopped dead, and all that was left was lightning so bright she couldn't keep her eyes open. Her eyelids clamped tightly shut against the fierce glare. "James, James," she sobbed, arms clutching her daughter tightly.

She wasn't a bit surprised, when she opened her eyes again, to find herself sitting on the floor of a modern-day office, being stared at by a man in a suit as he hovered anxiously over her, his tall frame blocking out the sunlight streaming in the windows behind him.

"You're... you're one of the women who disappeared from the barracks two days ago!" he exclaimed, eyes perfectly round in his dark face.

Buffy bounced Joyce in her leaden-feeling arms, allowing him to hook a hand under her elbow and hoist her to her feet. "Yes," she said dully over her daughter's whimpering. "That would be me." She around. "What's this room used for now?"

"Now?" he repeated, looking puzzled. "It is my office. I'm the head curator of the museum." He led her to a chair and she gratefully sank into it, stroking Joyce's curls with shaking fingers. The baby had calmed down considerably and now only only gave little whimpers interspersed with hiccups. "Dr. Frederick Horace."

"Hi," Buffy said, and dropped her head heavily against the soft upholstery. "Buffy Norrington. Do you think I can call my husband at the resort?"

Not ten minutes later, Dr. Horace's office was overflowing with people as James, Giles, and the Scoobies arrived.

"Where's Dawn?" Giles demanded as James pulled his wife and daughter into his arms, holding them so tightly Joyce let out a startled squeak as she was squashed between her parents.

"If you ever do that again," James murmured in Buffy's ear, "I'm going to kill you."

She sagged against him. "Okay," she agreed, kissing his chin before answering Giles. "I don't know, she's probably somewhere around the fort... she wasn't with me when the storm started up and sent me back."

"We'll find her," said Willow, glancing up at Xander.

"I'm on it," he announced, and spun from the room to begin the search.

But they didn't find her, not anywhere in the fort, not anywhere in all of the surrounding area of Kingston. In 2005, a group of people searched fruitlessly for one of their number, and in 1697, a young woman smiled up at the handsome officer escorting her, unaware that she'd been stranded three hundred years in the past.

* * *

Dawn had indeed left that morning intent on torturing Lieutenant Gillette with her presence. If he disliked her so greatly, it stood to reason that pestering him would be the best punishment available for his imprudent words of the night before. She found him at the tail end of drilling a small company on their formations, and amused herself (and the men) by providing a running commentary on his performance.

It was only when she began to fear that Gillette might actually make good on his threats to eviscerate her with the blunt end of a bayonette that Dawn decided that discretion was indeed the better part of valour and left him to it, his final muttering of 'insolent trollop" echoing in her highly amused ears. Murtogg gave her a lesson on how to clean and load a rifle, and then she wandered to the kitchen for a snack. Two plums later, she wandered back and wished to God she had something to do, because she was really, really bored.

Thus it was with great relief that she spied Lieutenant Groves' handsome face as she turned a corner on the way back to James' apartments. "Hi!" she chirped, about to ask him if he wanted to go for another walk, when he gently but firmly took her elbow and steered her away from James' door.

"Still busy, hm?" she asked dryly, and to his credit he only blushed a tiny bit, high up on his cheekbones.

"Shall we take another constitutional to the docks?" he asked, and she laughed.

"What an original idea," she teased, and allowed him to lead the way. He guided her around the many parcels and barrels and crates, then took her for a tour of the town area itself. Still quite small because of its tender age, Kingston was nonetheless well-equipped with a goodly number of shops and merchants, not the least was a considerably-sized smithy toward the east end of town.

At one point, Dawn thought she heard a rumble of thunder in the distance and frowned.

"Heat lightning," Lieutenant Groves commented, and passed the cuff of his woollen coat discreetly over his damp forehead. "It's ruddy hot today."

The rest of the Caribbean sky was a clear, cloudless blue and Dawn thought nothing more of it.

Finally Dawn's stomach alerted them to the impending need for dinner, and they headed back to the fort. She was enjoying Lieutenant Groves' company immensely; he was quiet, but possessed a wry and even sometimes wicked sense of humour. He was smart, too, and handsome. _Really _really_ handsome,_ she amended when the sun lit up his dark eyes as he smiled down at her. Suddenly, she was very sorry she'd have to return to her own time soon—there was a distinct and regrettable lack of uniform-wearing hotties in her century, it would seem. Dawn made a mental note to hang out around military bases more often.

The moment she pushed open the door to James' apartments, Dawn knew something was wrong. He was sitting in the big leather wing chair she'd already become accustomed to seeing him in, one leg elegantly crossed over the other. His hands lightly gripped the armrests, one finger tapping idly as he stared at the empty fireplace. None of that was unusual in the least, until you looked at his face: his expression was that which most people reserved for when they'd heard the worst news of their lives. He looked like he'd aged ten years, the planes of his features deeply carved and lined in a way they had not been that morning.

"What?" Dawn demanded, running to him. "Is it Buffy? Joyce? Are they hurt?"

"Hurt?" James murmured, not turning his gaze from the cold grate. "No, not hurt."

"Then what?" Dawn was aware of Lieutenant Groves coming silently to stand behind her. She grabbed James' hand, forcing him to pay attention to her. "Where are they?"

He looked at her then, stared at her a long time with eyes that were shockingly empty. "They have gone back." He seemed unaffected by her quick, indrawn breath. "As should you have." The tiniest of smiles graced his lips, then. "Ironic, is it not? She has returned to her time when she would have preferred to stay, and you are here when you wish, I am sure, to be there."

Dawn fell back from her crouch beside him to land hard on her backside as strength left her legs. "They're gone?" she whispered, feeling dizzy. "They went back, and left me here?"

"It was not by choice, Miss Summers," James said, and went back to looking at the fireplace. "She was under the impression that you would return as well. I imagine she is... distraught, at this moment, knowing you have remained here."

"She's not the only distraught one," Dawn said dazedly, studying her hands as if they were the only things in the universe that made any sense at that moment.

"You do not appear entirely well either, sir," Groves ventured, and both Dawn and James jolted to hear his voice. She'd forgotten he was even there.

"I thank you for your concern, Lieutenant," James said absently. "I believe I will retire for the evening." He stood, extending a hand down to Dawn to assist her to her feet. "Miss Summers, if you have need of anything, please avail yourself to anything in my apartments, ask Lieutenant Groves, or failing that, come to me."

As he swept away to what she assumed was his bedroom, Dawn felt like wailing, "No, don't go! Don't leave me!" But she knew, also, that he was devastated and not up to helping her feel better. His would be cold comfort, indeed.

A light touch on her shoulder made her turn around and find Groves watching her, his eyes curious but concerned. "I do not pretend to know what has happened," he said softly, "but come, you will feel better after you have rested."

He meant to bring her back to her little room, the room she'd shared with Buffy, and Dawn fought the tide of panic that rose within her at being alone.

"No, please," she said, "stay with me, here?" She closed her eyes as the first tears fell. "I'm so scared," she whispered. Fighting demons was one thing; being separated from her family and friends and home and everything she knew was quite another.

Slowly, hesitantly, his arms came around her, and his gentle hand pressed her head to his shoulder. She clung to him, holding on tightly as she soaked his uniform with her tears. When she'd cried herself out, he led her to the settee and had her sit, then left her briefly to murmur a command to a passing Marine.

A few minutes later, a trolley bearing a light meal was rolled in. Groves dismissed the young man who brought it, and dished it up himself, coaxing her to eat. She did feel better after eating, as he'd said she would, and even agreed to lay down when he suggested it. Just before she'd have fallen asleep, her salt-swollen eyes falling blessedly shut as she snuggled her head onto the tasselled velvet cushion, there was a sharp rap on the door.

Groves answered it, revealing Gillette in all his irate glory. "Where have you been?" he demanded of his colleague. "Still a-wooing Summers the Younger?" He craned his head to see over Groves' shoulder into the darkened room beyond, and frowned. "Something feels... wrong," he declared. "Has something happened?"

"Mrs. Summers and Miss Joyce have gone," Groves told him carefully. "Miss Summers remains, however."

Gillette drew his own inferences. "The Commodore is well?" he asked.

Groves sighed. "As can be expected."

"And Miss Summers?"

"She is... distraught."

"I would say!" Gillette exclaimed. "Being deserted by your sister, after all!"

Dawn shot up from the settee and over to him, suprising Groves into retreating a step. "She didn't desert me," she said. "It wasn't her choice to go so soon, or so suddenly. She couldn't help it."

Gillette's gaze flicked past her to Groves, and she knew they were communicating silently, Groves likely warning Gillette to not upset her further. "As you say," he said at last, nodding.

"Don't humour me," she growled. "I know my sister. She would never leave me here voluntarily. She's risked her life to protect me. She _died _to protect me. She wouldn't just abandon me here. It wasn't her fault."

"She... died?" Gillette's eyes travelled once more to Groves, ruddy eyebrows lifting almost to his wig's hairline.

"I mean, she _almost _died," Dawn amended hastily. "Don't mind me, I'm distraught."

_Great,_ she thought. _Stuck here, and giving away all our secrets to a guy who already thinks I'm a trollop. Now he'll think I'm an _insane_ trollop._

He only nodded slowly. "Yes, I think you are. Perhaps some rest would be just the thing. Shall we escort you to your room?"

"Can you stay with me if I do?" She gave him a watery smile. "I don't want to be alone, just yet."

He blinked. "I'm afraid not."

Dawn nodded. "I didn't think so." She returned to the settee and lay down, tugging on her long skirts until they weren't wadded under her hips too uncomfortably. "I'll stay here, then."

Gillette turned his wide-eyed face to Groves, then. "Right," he said at last. "I'll just... get a quilt for you then, shall I?" And he left.

"Why's he being so nice all of a sudden?" Dawn mumbled into the gaudy cushion. "I thought I was a trollop."

Groves laughed softly as he came to sit on the settee by her feet. "Trevor can be a terrible prat most of the time," he said, "but at heart, he is decent. It is not in his nature to kick a fellow when he's down." He paused. "Nor a trollop."

Dawn smiled in spite of herself. "Good to know," she replied. Then, "Lieutenant?" At his _hmm_ of acknowledgment, she nudged him with her leg. "Thanks."

He nudged her leg back with his elbow. "You are quite welcome, Miss Summers."

* * *

Dawn woke the next morning in her little bed in her little room, and dimly recalled being carried there by Lieutenant Groves, with Gillette helping maneuver her extended legs through doorways. They'd tucked her into bed as well as any doting mother, and Dawn mumbled, "What, no kiss goodnight?" as they smoothed the covers over her. Gillette gave a snort, and Groves laughed, a low sound that even in her state of sleepiness sent a shiver through her before she rolled over and passed out.

Her situation didn't seem any better in the cool light of the following morning. The fact remained that she was stranded in a century not her own, without money or friends or medieval-era job skills. Dawn knew that James would help her, for Buffy's sake, but she didn't want to be a burden to him or anyone else. She also knew that things were relatively grim for women in this time, their fates controlled by men: fathers, brothers, husbands. Lacking all three, she fervently hoped that she'd get some measure of freedom in choosing what was to become of her.

Buffy was trying frantically to get her home; Dawn knew this perfectly well. She'd have Giles, Willow, absolutely everyone possible working 24 hours a day until a way was found to bring her back to the 21st century. Dawn just hoped it would happen sooner rather than later, preferably before her legs and underarms needed shaving again—she strongly doubted there was any great supply of little pink disposable razors in 1697.

Dawn went to James' apartments after washing and dressing, but found he'd already gone for the day, as had the Lieutenants. Wandering, she found Mr. Mullroy and Mr. Murtogg in a spirited discussion over a game of dice and cajoled them into teaching her how to play, then proceeded to spend the rest of the day beating the pants off them. Figuratively, thank god.

It was Gillette who found her there on the parapet with them flanking her around the little table and most of their last month's salaries safely tucked away in her bodice. "The Commodore bids you join him for supper," he said, and whisked her away. She promised over her shoulder to grant them a rematch the next day, and Gillette responded by walking faster, until he was almost running.

"Still insist you're not a trollop?" he asked, smirking. "First, your odd speech; now, I find you sharping the men at dice. What will be next, drunken carousing in a pub?"

"After the past few days, I think I've earned myself a little carousing," Dawn muttered, earning herself an eyeroll from the lieutenant. "Bring it on."

James and Groves were waiting for them when they arrived. James bowed over her hand, his face still somber as if carved from stone, while Groves merely nodded and smiled a little. The meal was quiet, and between the four of them exhausted the topics of the weather, Kingston's growth, deployment of His Majesty's troops to various other islands, and—

"Jack Sparrow," James said flatly. "The man's always been a menace, even before regaining his beloved Black Pearl, but ever since they took that Dutch sloop and he's named himself Commodore—" the curl of a thin lip said volumes about what he though of this affectation—"he's been insufferable."

"They say he named a woman the captain of the Erfzonde, sir, is that true?" aked Groves. Dawn, already fascinated by the conversation once it turned to pirates, perked up further.

"Yes," James confirmed. "Anamaria, last name unknown. It was in pursuit of her that I went earlier this week, Miss Summers, so that I was not here when you arrived." His long fingers danced restlessly over the slender stem of his wine glass before he picked it up. "She is… crafty, much like Mr. Sparrow himself, and managed to elude me as I captained the Dauntless."

He frowned. "Powerful it is, that ship, but sluggish. If we're to be taken seriously as a bulwark against piracy, we must have a something that can actually catch these faster ships the pirates have."

"It's been several years now, sir," Gillette said. "Perhaps they've forgiven you about the Interceptor and will send you a replacement?"

James levelled a cool and yet still cranky look on his second in command. "Indeed."

Gillette recognized he'd said something unwise and flushed a little, devoting his attentions to his plate instead of his superior. Then his face brightened, as if he'd remembered something cheery. "Miss Summers has taken to relieving the men of their wages at dice," he commented, smiling happily when James slowly swiveled his head in her direction.

"Is that so," he murmured, surveying her over the rim of his wine glass. "Would you care to test your mettle at gaming against their commanding officer, Miss Summers? Cards, perhaps? I think you'll find me somewhat more difficult to sharp out of my salary."

"Absolutely," she said with great relief. "I was afraid we were going to spend the evening discussing more of this fascinating ship stuff."

"Miss Summers," James said, a hint of a grin touching the corners of his mouth as he motioned for Groves to bring the cards, "you are aware, I hope, that we three are all Naval officers?"

Dawn took the cards and began expertly shuffling in the way Spike had taught her, years ago. "Yeah," she said absently. "Who knew sailors could be so boring?" With a lazy flick of her wrist, she began dealing, ignoring how two of the three exchanged amused glances.

They played for two hours, during which time James soundly beat the others each and every time. Dawn glared at him, distinctly out of sorts. "You could let a lady win at least once," she grumped.

"Were there a lady here, I would be more than delighted to do so," he replied smoothly, ignoring both her pout and Groves soft exclamation at the jibe. "But I fear the hour grows late, and there is yet some business that we must discuss."

Something in his tone put Dawn at full alert. "Oh?" she asked, putting her hands beneath the table so she could try to still their sudden trembling. "Would this business concern me?"

James inclined his head. "This fort is not equipped for visitors of the feminine variety," he told her, "nor is it considered acceptable for one to be here, surrounded by men, to none of whom she is related. Therefore, I have procured for you a position."

Dawn only just bit back her automatic response of "doggie-style?". "Oh?" was all she said.

"An… old friend is expecting her third child soon, and finds that she requires some assistance with her older children as well as the cooking and housework. She and her husband are quite happy to provide you with a home until your situation can be remedied, in return for your help."

Dawn felt her stomach sink, even as she was aware of how the lieutenants started in surprise at their commanding officer's words. Even though James was doing the best he could for her, she still felt like she was being pawned off on strangers.

"I don't want to leave here," she said softly. The idea of being away from him, even if he weren't the brother-in-law she remembered, made her feel distinctly panicky. "I don't know anyone else but you three, I'll be all alone."

"Mr. and Mrs. Turner are fine, hard-working people," James replied, his face carefully blank. "You shall get along famously with Elizabeth; there is something of the hooligan in her, as well. I am sure you shall miss them desperately when this… mistake is corrected and you return home."

Dawn stared at him a long moment, hoping her big puppy eyes would move him, but he simply stared back, and she sighed and slumped back into her chair, defeated. "Will you let me visit, at least?" she asked pitifully. "I have abandonment issues."

He nodded, then waved a hand to indicate the lieutenants. "And I am sure you shall have visitors galore, as well."

Groves smiled warmly at her. "Indeed, Miss Summers," he agreed. "I shall visit you, and I know Misters Murtogg and Mullroy shall both be eager to lose more of their wages to you."

"And I suppose I can find a few moments in my hectic workweek to bless you with some of my precious time," Gillette said airily. Dawn found herself helpless to keep from grinning in spite of her apprehension; he was a jerk, but he was a _funny_ jerk.

She squared her shoulders in an unconsciously Buffylike way. "Ok," she said at last. "But I'm getting tired of taking care of kids without any of the fun of making them myself."


	4. Chapter 4

**Tempus Fidgets, chapter 4**

Mrs. Turner came by herself to get Dawn the next morning. The very sight of her confirmed that there was, indeed, at least one other tall and flat-chested woman in town besides Dawn—or at least, there would have been, had Mrs. Turner not been quite excessively pregnant.

"Oh, so _you_ were the reason they asked me for a dress," Mrs. Turner said upon meeting Dawn. "Well, it's nice to see someone getting some use out of it." She sighed dramatically, turning laughing eyes to James. "Heaven knows I shan't be even contemplating wearing one that small for almost another year."

He watched them with patient forbearance, hands clasped behind his back. "If I might have a word, Mrs. Turner?" He gestured toward his office with one hand, face stoic and unmoved as the smile fell from her face.

James ushered Mrs. Turner into the office and said to Dawn, "Do find someone to harass, Miss Summers. We shall be finished soon."

She nodded and walked toward her quarters, knowing he was watching, but as soon as she heard the faint click of his door closing, doubled back on tip-toe. Something was afoot, and she had every intention of learning what it was. Crouching down, Dawn placed her ear to the keyhole and focused.

"I thank you for meeting with me, Mrs. Turner—" James began, but she interrupted him with a charming laugh.

"James, surely you can call me Elizabeth, after all we've been through? At least here, alone?"

There was a long pause, and then he slowly replied, "Of course. Elizabeth." He cleared his throat. "What did you think of Miss Summers?"

A shorter pause. "She appears pleasant… James, what's this all about? You do not look your best." There was a thread of concern in her voice, and Dawn knew then that Elizabeth was completely unaware of James' plans. She frowned; last night, he had purposefully given the impression that it was all settled and official.

"I have had some bad news recently, of a personal nature," James told her haltingly. "But that is irrelevant to the matter at hand. Miss Summers has suffered a reversal of fortune, and has no home here or abroad. She cannot, of course, continue to live at this facility, but has no money and, I fear, her job skills would not suffice for most employers."

_Hey_, Dawn though grouchily.

"You are not far removed in age, and I know you have been lonely since your marriage to Mr. Turner."

Elizabeth was silent a long time before answering. "Yes," she said at last, softly. "I have been."

"Miss Summers is not a person to make distinction of birth or class, Elizabeth. She will treat both you and Mr. Turner with respect and friendship."

"I would like that," Elizabeth replied quietly. "What is it you propose?"

"That Miss Summers come to live with you, assist you with your ever-growing brood and generally be a live-in companion. Though somewhat ignorant of our ways (_Hey!_ thought Dawn again, indignant) she is bright and I have no doubt she will swiftly learn how to conduct herself here."

Elizabeth was silent a moment, considering. Then, "Would people not talk, two young women with Will in the house? Everyone knows we still can't afford to pay for a girl to help me."

"People talk now, with just the one of you," James replied dryly. "You must know that in a place this size, any inkling of scandal is eagerly awaited. It has never seemed to hurt the brisk trade your husband enjoys."

She sighed. "Yes, just so. And speaking of scandal…" Her tone turned sly. "I hear you had no success in taking the Pearl this time, either. When will you learn, James, that you may command a dauntless ship, but Jack commands a peerless one?"

"Very clever, madam," James retorted, the scrape of his chair as he stood almost drowning out his words. The rest of his reply was lost, in fact, because a hand grasped Dawn's arm and hauled her upright.

"You," said Lieutenant Groves, a darkly amused glint in his eyes, "had best learn to keep an ear turned to both sides." He fairly dragged her down the hallway, then made a show of walking back up with her toward James' office just as the door opened, looking for all the world as if they'd happened to arrive just at the end of the Commodore's meeting with Mrs. Turner.

"So, Miss Summers, I hear you are in need of lodging. I happen to need assistance in my home while I am indisposed. Can we come to terms, do you think?" Elizabeth's face was alight with good humour and hope, and Dawn found herself smiling back.

"Only if you call me Dawn instead of Miss Summers. Miss Summers always makes me feel like I'm in trouble."

"A familiar condition, I'm sure," James muttered under his breath, eyes averted to the ceiling, but there was the faintest twist of teasing to his mouth. The women ignored him.

"Dawn, then. And you will call me Elizabeth?" At Dawn's nod, she continued. "I'm sure you have some things to bring with you, shall I help you with them?"

"There will be no lifting for you in that condition," James answered for her. "You will return home, and Miss Summers will call on you presently."

Dawn bristled at his presumption but Elizabeth seemed completely unaffected. "Dear James," she said, smiling warmly at him. "Thank you for thinking of us."

He inclined his head, a ghost of a smile on his own lips. Groves volunteered to show Dawn to the Turner home, and Elizabeth left.

Dawn didn't have much to get; the entirety of her belongings in this era could be stuffed into Joyce's diaper bag, which Buffy had not had time to grab before the time thingy returned her to 2005.

"Miss Summers," James called, just as she was about to leave with Lieutenant Groves. When he caught them up, he held up a hand for Dawn's silence. "You know, of course, that this has not been an eviction. You are still welcome to visit Fort Charles-- provided we are not in the midst of a battle-- or me at any time."

She had learned by now that this from James was tantamount to anyone else begging her to spend time with him. She stretched up and hugged him tightly; though he wasn't the second James, he was still close enough for her, and the only thing she had that was familiar in this time.

"Thanks, James," she whispered, kissing his cheek and pretending she'd knocked his wig askew by accident.

He hem-hemmed and made a great show of tugging his waistcoat back into place, a flush along his high cheekbones, and left forthwith. Groves just grinned and offered his arm once more. Dawn took it, sighing as she glanced back one last time at the fort, and hoped she was doing the right thing by going to live with the Turners. Not that she had a choice. But at least Elizabeth seemed nice.

"What did James mean about Elizabeth being lonely since she married her husband?" she asked Groves.

He seemed startled by her question, and she remembered belatedly that issues of a personal nature tended to be ignored rather than addressed in this time and place.

"I believe," he began slowly, "that he meant how Mrs. Turner has been shunned by her former associates since her marriage, because he is common and she was the daughter of the Governor, himself a lord and landowner. She married quite beneath herself, it is felt in some circles."

Dawn frowned at that. "Well, were they in love?" she asked.

Groves smiled. "Oh, yes, utterly," he replied. "I have yet to see any since who could compare. They risked their lives repeatedly for each other, before they were married, and from the speedy appearance of all these children in such short order would not appear to have lost any of that fervour."

"That's all that matters, then," she declared comfortably, not realizing she had tucked her hand more deeply into the crook of his elbow.

_He_ noticed, however, and covered her hand with his, fleetingly. "Is that so?"

She nodded firmly. "I don't know if you've noticed, Lefftenant," she said, stressing the English pronunciation, "but life kinda sucks. There's not a lot of love in it. You have to grab it when it comes your way, before it's gone and you missed it."

He didn't answer, and she flushed with embarrassment, pulling away a little, but his hand on her arm kept her close.

"No," he said, "don't be embarrassed. You're right." He turned to her then, and raised her hand to his lips. "You're right."

Dawn's heart felt like it was going to beat right out of her chest, as he smiled down at her with the sun at his back. Even in the wig, he was hot. She wondered what he looked like without it. "What's your first name?" she blurted.

"Theodore." He was walking again, turning down a narrow residential avenue from the busier mercantile street they'd been walking along. Though he didn't look at her as he answered, she could see the curl of his mouth. "But you may call me Theo."

Feeling mischievous—and a little turned on—Dawn skipped to keep up with his brisk pace. "Can I call Gillette 'Trev' like you do?"

"Only if you wish him to suffer apoplexy," Theo replied with a full-blown grin, and paused before a house. It was modestly-sized, of beige brick with black shutters and the most beautiful wrought-iron railings at each tall window. The garden was a mélange of artfully neglected English style, but populated by indigenous flora such as hibiscus and palm, and a winding path led from street to door in a most inviting way.

They started up the walk and Theo raised his hand to knock, but voices inside gave him pause. Once more Dawn shamelessly pressed herself to the door so as to not miss a word, even though they carried clearly. Groves tugged on her hand, trying to pull her away, but her glare told him he'd have to drag her away before she'd go willingly.

"I fail to see how this is such a problem, Will," came Elizabeth's voice. "We had discussed getting a girl in to help me, even before this."

"It is not the concept I object to, Elizabeth, but the person who made it come to pass. Norrington has never liked me, you know this. And he likes Jack even less. I am very suspicious of his suddenly wanting someone to come live with us, now that Jack's got the Erfzonde as well as the Pearl. What if she's some sort of spy, and will report to him any word we have of Jack?"

"I don't know," Elizabeth said after a moment. "But we can just be careful, and never discuss him before her."

"What about the girls?" Will challenged. "They love to talk about their Uncle Jack. How can we get them to stop mentioning him?"

She sighed. "She'll have heard, by now, of our relationship with him. There's no hiding it. We just won't tell the girls anything about Jack's comings and goings."

"Elizabeth…"

"She'll be here soon, Will. You should go get ready to greet her."

There was a brief pause, rife with tension, and then Will's voice, low and angry. "How much longer are you going to let your guilt for using Norrington get the best of you? It's not just you it affects, anymore."

"Please, Will," Elizabeth replied, sounding tired.

Dawn turned, wide-eyed, to Theo and saw that he did not look surprised in the least by the conversation they'd just overheard. Grabbing him by the lapel, she dragged him back to the street.

"What are they talking about?"

Theo grimaced, darting a glance back at the house before bending his head closer to her ear.

"Years ago, prior to the earthquake that destroyed Port Royal, the Commodore was a suitor for Mrs. Turner's hand in marriage, while Mr. Turner held her in his affections from afar. There was some… excitement with some pirates, of which Jack Sparrow was one, and Mrs. Turner was kidnapped.

"Mr. Turner enlisted the help of Mr. Sparrow by springing him from gaol, then rescued Mrs. Turner. He himself was captured in the course of this rescue, and the Commodore only saved him because Mrs. Turner requested it, specifically as a wedding present to her."

He waited while Dawn assimilated that information. "That's… cold," she said, glancing at the house where Elizabeth awaited them. "I wouldn't have thought she'd be so cold."

"Normally, she would not," Theo told her. "But one can be pushed to dire straits by love, can one not?"

Dawn chose not to answer that, hoping it was just rhetorical. "Then what?"

"Mr. Turner was rescued and pardoned, but Mr. Sparrow was to be hanged. Mr. Turner staged a dramatic but unsuccessful rescue attempt of him, which Mrs. Turner joined at the last minute, rejecting the Commodore's suit at the same time, quite publicly."

"Ouch." Dawn felt a fine glow of protective anger start up in her chest for James. He was a decent guy, and didn't deserve that. "So, Elizabeth feels guilty for that? She should."

Theo tilted his head to one side, in consideration of her. "Grudges benefit no one after a while, Miss Summers. Very little point to them at all, really."

"Says you," she grumbled. "Well, we might as well get on with it. But if he hates me and she just mopes around all the time, I'm coming back to the fort whether James wants me to or not."

"I thank you for the warning," he replied gravely, earning a poke in the ribs at which he just laughed.

A rap on the black-painted door with an equally-black, elaborate knocker brought Elizabeth to the door, smiling even if her face were wan and one hand was planted in the center of her back.

"Ah, you're here. Welcome!"

The downstairs was one large, sunny room. The middle of the far wall was dominated by an immense fireplace, and to the right seemed to be the kitchen area, with various cupboards and counters as well as a table flanked by two long benches. To the left seemed to be the living area, with padded chairs and stools arranged around the fireplace. It felt cozy and lived-in, and Dawn found herself charmed by it even as she wondered how charming it would be after six months when the romance had worn off.

Two little girls ran in the back door, followed by a handsome young man whose damp hair indicated he'd just washed his face.

"These are my darlings," Elizabeth said, pride clear in her voice. "My husband Will, and my daughters, Isabel and Margaret."

The men shook hands, and Will bowed perfunctorily over Dawn's hand but there was a set to his jaw that told her he was still pissed off about her being there. Uneasy, she turned to the children instead.

"Hi," she said to them, crouching down to their eye-level. "I'm Dawn. Let me guess; you're Isabel, and you're Margaret?" she asked, pointing at each of them, purposefully getting it backwards.

"No," said the older girl, about four years old, quite seriously. "I'm Isabel, and that's Margaret." Both were adorable little things, with curly brown hair and enormous dark eyes.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Dawn replied, shooting a grin up at the other adults. "Do you forgive me?"

The younger girl, Margaret, didn't answer, just jammed her thumb in her mouth and stared with big eyes, but Isabel nodded after a moment of careful consideration.

"Dawn will be staying here and helping Mummy for a while," Elizabeth said, sinking into a deep leather chair with a sigh of relief and helping Margaret clamber up onto her lap.

"Because of the baby?" Isabel asked.

"Yes," Will answered, coming to stand behind his eldest and placing a hand on her curly head. "Until the baby comes and your Mum is little again, it's hard for her to take care of all of us by herself." He shot a teasing glance over at his wife, who frowned playfully, their disagreement of before seemingly forgotten.

"Are you a good cook?" Isabel asked Dawn. "Because Papa eats a lot, and it won't do to have him eating rubbish."

"I'm, um, a good cook where I live, but you'll have to make sure I cook well here, too," she replied, a little nervous. This kid was strict.

"Isabel will keep you on your toes," Elizabeth said with a fond smile.

"Like her mother, that one," Will added, sending another grin her way. "Miss, it was an honour to make your acquaintance, but I fear I must return to the smithy else the day is wasted. I shall see you all at dinner." He dropped a kiss on Elizabeth's head and rumpled his daughters' hair once more, and was gone. Theo, too, had to return to his duties, and departed after promising to visit soon.

And then they were alone, just the four females.

"Well!" Elizabeth said, heaving herself upright. "Let's get you familiar with everything." She gestured around them at the room. "This is the common room, as you can see. Out the back door is a pantry, and beyond that is the chicken coop and the privy."

She gestured to the corner, where was tucked a narrow staircase.

"Upstairs are the bedrooms, one for Will and I and one for the girls… you'll be sharing with them, unless you want a pallet down here, that you would roll up each morning?" At Dawn's assurance that sharing with the girls would be fine, she continued, "I shan't go up with you, as I'm trying not to take the stairs more than once a day, but Isabel and Margaret will be glad to show you, don't you, darlings?"

The girls nodded and then the house resounded with the sound of their thundering little feet as they dashed upstairs. Dawn followed at a rather more leisurely pace. The rooms were cozy just like the first floor, with one large bed, clothing cupboard, and small fireplace in each. The girls' room was characterized with dolls and toys scattered around, while their parents' was neat as a pin.

"Margaret hogs the covers," Isabel informed her solemnly.

"Don't," said Margaret calmly, and without removing the thumb from her mouth, pulled back her foot and delivered a hefty kick to her sister's shin. The resultant wail echoed through the room and made Dawn think longingly of Murtogg and Mullroy; they were always bickering but there was never (ok, rarely) any overt hostilities.

She steered the girls downstairs and decided now was as good a time as any to ask what, exactly, was her authority in this house.

"I want to know if I can punish the little angels," she said bluntly.

"Certainly," Elizabeth replied immediately, eyes twinkling as she heaved herself from the chair. "Just don't beat them too badly, or Will might feel bad," she joked. The girls looked distinctly unimpressed.

"They never beat us," Isabel told Dawn smugly. Margaret nodded agreement.

"Perhaps I should start, then!" Elizabeth said, and gave each of them a playful swat on the backside. "Isabel, don't tease Margaret, and Margaret, no kicking. No pudding for either of you tonight."

Both pouted, but she ignored them, turning to Dawn with a smile. "So, dinner! What shall we have? Will brought a rasher of bacon with him earlier, and there's eggs of course, and half a wheel of cheese. Coffins would be nice and easy for your first evening here."

Dawn blinked. "I… don't think they call them that where I come from," she said slowly. "What's in them?"

Elizabeth was already opening the cupboard doors, withdrawing a bowl. "Small pies, filled with eggs and cheese and crumbled bacon," she explained.

"Uncle Jack loves coffins," Isabel piped up, pulling open the drawer of flour and withdrawing a big scoop with both hands. She was so busy spilling flour on the clean, polished boards of the floor that she didn't notice how her mother's spine snapped straight, or how Dawn's ears practically twitched at the mention of the name.

Elizabeth snatched up a wire basket and thrust it at her oldest daughter. "Darling, go get us a half-dozen eggs. You remember how many a half-dozen is, don't you?"

Isabel dropped the scoop back into the flour drawer and held up all five fingers on her right hand and the thumb of her left. "This many."

Elizabeth gave her a tight smile and nodded, shooing her and Margaret out the back door toward the chicken coop. As soon as they were gone, she paused in scooping out spoonfuls of lard for the coffin pastry and turned to Dawn.

"You'll learn in time that our family is somewhat… unpopular, due to our friendship with he whom the girls call Uncle Jack," she said, stirring salt and soda into the flour she'd salvaged from Isabel. Cutting lard into the mixture, she continued, "Doubtless you've heard of him."

Dawn nodded slowly. "James doesn't think much of him."

Elizabeth snorted, a most unladylike sound, and turned back to the table. "James is a hard man to impress."

"Don't I know it," Dawn replied. "But he's a really good person, if you can get past the wig."

"Yes, he is rather married to his career," Elizabeth sighed, misunderstanding Dawn's mockery of the good commodore's wardrobe. "I always hoped he'd find a suitable woman, had a family…"

"Since you were unavailable," Dawn blurted, then wished she could sink through the floor at her insensitivity.

But Elizabeth was unperturbed. "Yes, I knew you'd have heard of that, too," she commented, her face wistful as the girls tromped back inside the house, more straw from the chicken nests than eggs in the basket. "I was sorry it ended up as it had. But one must follow the dictates of the heart, mustn't one?"

She rested a floury hand on each curly head, smiling down at her daughters when they protested that she was getting them messy. She was the very picture of contentment, and it sent a pang of longing through Dawn's chest.

"Yes," Dawn said around the growing lump in her throat. "One must."

* * *

_Three Months Later_

Will was at the forge once more, Elizabeth had taken the girls on their weekly visit to their grandfather and Dawn was left alone with the housework—again. She'd been up since sunrise, baking bread from the sponge she'd set last night and making breakfast for the household. It was now nearly noon and she'd just finished the laundry.

Pulling it, fresh-scented and sun-bleached, from the line nailed between the chicken coop and the house filled her with a sense of satisfaction. Who'd have thought she could find some measure of peace here? Sure, it was an idyllic island paradise, but it was still 1690-something. The odds hadn't been good, all told.

She lugged the laundry upstairs, folded the clothes, put it away. There was a single large chest of drawers in Elizabeth's and Will's room, and that contained all the family's "smalls", or underwear. The outer garments were simply hung on pegs in the wall, one peg per person. Will had shot Dawn a dubious glance when he'd added a peg for her clothes, as if skeptical that she was worth putting another hole in the girls' bedroom wall.

One peg was all that was needed; Elizabeth couldn't afford to give Dawn more than two gowns. She had one for everyday, and a slightly dressier, less-worn one for special occasions.

"I never realized," Elizabeth laughed one day, "how expensive cloth was. And unless you're a talented seamstress, having things made costs dearly, too."

Dawn was _not_ a talented seamstress. Her efforts at sewing had borne limited and lopsided fruit, and she was permitted only to hem unimportant things, like aprons and bed sheets, that few people would see. Even then, her hems rose and ebbed like waves on a sea.

"Well," Will said diplomatically, "at least you can cook decently well."

It was a grudging compliment, but one that had made Dawn beam for an entire week. It had taken her almost a month to get the hang of cooking over a fire. Using a spider, an iron skillet with long legs raising it over the fire, and baking in the little niches of the hearth's walls had taken even more time to get right.

But once she had, even Will-- her greatest critic-- had to admit that she had talent. Dawn's teenaged fascination with bizarre food combinations had translated, with maturity, to a genuine interest in cooking, to the point where the general Scooby consensus was that she was the best cook out of the entire group.

_Bet they're missing me now,_ Dawn thought with satisfaction at the idea of them being subjected to everyone else's feeble attempts and rare successes at the culinary arts. Buffy was agreed to be the worst cook of the bunch, with Giles trailing a distant second. Xander was ok at things like assembling English muffin pizzas but actual from-scratch cooking continued to elude him, and Willow's repertoire was pretty much restricted to cookies.

More than slightly horrified by the sheer amount of lard the Turner family habitually consumed, Dawn had begun using more risen and sourdough breads than pastry. That accomplished, she began incorporating more vegetables—fresh, if possible—and less meat into their diets. Getting the girls to snack on fruit and carrot sticks instead of the sweets Elizabeth indulged them with was harder, however. It was no wonder everyone had dental problems in this time period. Having to brush your teeth with a rag dipped in salt didn't help any, either.

Dawn had hoped that Buffy and her friends would be able to find some way of saving her, but as the weeks passed with no hint of rescue in sight, she became resigned to the fact that she might be stuck here forever.

It could have been worse. She and Elizabeth became friends, Isabel and Margaret were delightful (most of the time), and even Will was warming up to her. She saw James every few days for lunch, and Lieutenant Groves came calling (this century's term for "dating") several nights a week after supper.

She was fairly certain he was falling in love with her. His steadfast attention, the expression in his eyes when he looked at her, and most of all the fine tremor she felt in him whenever she touched him, even accidentally, all told her that he had strong feelings for her.

To a certain extent, she was pleased by this. He was handsome, and kind, and had a good sense of humour. But—and she fully admitted that this was her own shortcoming, not his—she had to admit she found him a little boring, after the first month. There was no drama there, no excitement. He actually reminded her a bit of Xander, cute and fun and initially appealing, but ultimately more of a brother than anything else.

The bed she shared with the girls sporting fresh linens and a pretty quilt, now was left only their parent's bed to make. Once she was done with that, it would be back downstairs to start on lunch for Will. She had managed to score a decently-sized bit of fish from one of the fishermen down at the dock, and she had some leftover mayonnaise… she thought she'd treat him to a novelty: the tuna sandwich, except made with mahi-mahi instead of tuna.

Things had been rough between them at first. He had not wanted her intrusion in his home, and she knew he continued to be at least a little suspicious of her because of James, but gradually he was thawing toward her. He was more game for her somewhat odd food ideas than the rest of his family, and Dawn found it amusing that, failing any other point of reference for them to build upon, they were bonding over food.

Dawn blew impatiently at a stray wisp of hair that had escaped the knot at the back of her neck, hands too busy trying to tuck the sheet around the lumpy mattress to brush the wayward strand away. Filled with straw, the tick seemed to thwart her every attempt at hospital corners.

Muttering a foul word under her breath, she gave up and just shoved the wad of fabric under the edge of the mattress.

"Now, now, Elizabeth," drawled a voice from behind her. "Don't tell me that dear Will has been teaching you that sort of language?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Ack, I'm a terrible person for making it so long between updates. I will try try try not to let the next chapter take so long! Thanks for all your reviews :)

**Tempus Fidgets, Chapter 5**

Eeping in surprise, Dawn executed a move that was half-spin and jerk-upright all in one motion. "I'm not Elizabeth," she gasped, hand groping behind her for some sort of weapon at the sight of the strange man standing before her.

Just a little taller than her, his long dark hair was crazily tangled with beads, feathers, and coins and haphazardly tucked under a dirty bandanna. Thick lines of kohl rimmed his black eyes, and when he smiled at her (quite ingratiatingly) a bright gold tooth winked cheerily at her.

His clothes were like Will's—breeches and a waistcoat over a shirt, albeit in far less decent condition—but this guy's outfit boasted big slouchy bucket-boots instead of Will's stockings and shoes, and a long and colourful sash belted round his waist with a thick black belt.

"No," he agreed slowly, dark eyes raking over her in what appeared to be deep speculation. "I see that, now."

"Who are you?" Dawn demanded, her fingers curling round the heavy iron candlestick on the bedside table.

He quirked a sleek brow. "I think the question here, love, is who are _you_?" His voice was oddly slurred, and she realized (as a breeze flowed in the open window) that he smelled distinctly of rum.

_Drunk_, she thought in alarm, and scowled. "No, I live here, so the question is—oh, forget it." She whipped her hand around and swung the candlestick at his head. To her shock, in spite of his inebriation, his reflexes were amazingly fast.

Dodging the candlestick, he caught her wrist and spun her, pulling her up tightly against his chest with the awkward angle of her arm behind her back.

"I only let women hit me if they've actually met me before," he murmured into her ear, tossing the candlestick onto the bed. The touch of his warm breath on her skin made goosebumps trill down her arms and back, and she shivered against him involuntarily. He noticed, of course, and laughed, a low and intimate chuckle that she felt more than heard.

"Consider us met," Dawn said shakily. "_Now_ can I hit you?"

He began to walk her toward the stairs, his grip on her wrist and shoulder firm but painless. "No, but you can make me lunch."

"What? Lunch?" Confused, she balked. "I don't think so."

But he exerted just enough pressure on her arm to turn discomfort to the beginning twinges of pain, and she grudgingly allowed him to prod her forward.

Downstairs, he cautiously released her, and she spun around to find him watching her, one hand resting casually on the pistol at his side. She didn't doubt that if she tried to run, he'd catch or shoot her before she reached the door, especially in all these skirts.

His face was impassive, his eyes flat, and thus she was quite surprised when he whined, "Give over, love, I'm a hungry man. And I know Will's due in for his lunch within a half-hour. What's it to you, feeding two men instead of one?"

Amazed, Dawn blinked. "Who _are_ you?" she demanded. "How do you know Will and Elizabeth?"

He straightened marginally, and his left hand came to tug briefly at the cuff of his right sleeve. "Me name's John," he said, "John Smith, at your service." He went to doff his hat before realizing he didn't have one on and lowering his hand, settling for sketching a wobbly bow. "Will and Liz and I are old friends. And you are?"

"Dawn," she answered sullenly, not believing him a bit. "And I'm at _their_ service, not yours."

"Well, Dawn, me lass," he said heartily, and gestured toward the hearth as if she hadn't spoken, "how about something filling? I haven't eaten since…" His gaze drifted away from her, deep in thought. "There was… no, that was just rum. And then the… no, that was rum, too."

Dawn made a sound of disgust deep in her throat and threw up her hands.

"Fine," she said, reaching into the stone jar of brine which held the fish she'd bought, "I'll make you lunch. But if Will gets back and you're just some mooch wanting a free meal, you can deal with him." She sniffed, banging the cover of the jar down on the counter. "And he's really good with a sword."

He sidled up behind her, close enough to her to feel the warmth of his body, but not touching her. She paused in the act of mincing the fish as every nerve ending in her body quivered at attention.

"Ah, love, but so am I."

The words were sibilant, a seductive rush of breath in her ear, and Dawn felt something clench within her.

"Stop it," she whispered, hands trembling. She hastily put down the fork, fingers gripping the edge of the counter so tightly her knuckles whitened.

The door slammed open, and he sprang away from her, melting away into the shadows.

"Dawn, you should go join Eliz—" Will began, huffing from what appeared to be a frantic dash. He stopped suddenly when the intruder stepped from the murky corner. "Ah. Jack. I see I'm too late."

Dawn placed a hand over her heart, willing it to begin beating properly again after the man's proximity had done to her, followed so closely by Will's sudden and noisy arrival.

"Jack?" she demanded, whirling to face him. The weirdness of his appearance clicked into place in her mind. "Captain Jack _Sparrow_? The _pirate_? You said your name was John."

"_Commodore_ Jack Sparrow, if you please," he replied easily. "And John is me real name. Jack's me _nick_name. Rakish, don't you think?" She only glared at him, so he gave a vague wave in the direction of the counter. "Shouldn't you be cooking, love?"

She ignored him and turned to Will. "Why should I join Elizabeth?" she asked him, forcing her voice to be calm and level. "Is something wrong?"

Will plunked himself down on the bench and rested his elbows on the table, then dropped his head in his hands.

"I had heard," he mumbled into them, "that the Pearl had been seen near the harbour last night and hoped to send you to the governor's house to keep you from meeting Jack."

The man in question looked insulted.

"To protect him," Will amended hastily. Slightly mollified, Jack's face softened.

"Well, too late for that now," he said cheerfully. "If she can't be trusted, we'll just have to kill her." At the twin expressions of horror on Will's and Dawn's faces, he rolled his eyes. "Joking."

"How did you get here, Jack?" Will asked, apparently unwilling to sidetracked.

Jack plopped himself into one of the padded chairs by the fire, propping his feet up on the other, and took up Elizabeth's knitting, the wool snagging on his calloused fingertips.

"Rowed ashore," he replied succinctly, toying with the wool. "It was windy. Lost me hat." He scowled at the memory. "Secreted meself in various dark and cozy places until me belly was gnawing at me backbone more than I could bear."

Here, another woe-filled glance was directed at Dawn. She stomped over and tried to take the knitting from him, but he'd tangled himself up in it so efficiently that she had to extricate him from it, finger by finger.

Huffing angrily, Dawn pried him free, unaware of how close their faces were and how he was able to look right down her bodice, the way she was bent over. When she was able to snatch the hapless sock away and glanced up at him, he was just a millisecond too late averting his gaze.

"Caught," he murmured with a twinkly grin, trying to brazen his way out of it. "Going to slap me now, love?"

"Hah," Dawn said, straightening. "I bet slapping is just foreplay to men like you."

Will sucked in his breath, but Jack grinned unrepentantly up at her.

"Just so," he agreed cheerily. "Just so."

She turned and went back to the cupboard, mincing the fish furiously, as if it had personally done her a grievous wrong. Jack shot her a speculative glance that melted away into an expression of saintly innocence at the look Will leveled upon him.

"Why are you here, Jack?" Will asked, each word carefully pronounced and ominously emphasized.

In response to Will's menace, Jack threw one leg over the arm of his chair and closed his eyes. "Wanted to see me goddaughters," he replied, and there was a weariness to his tone that even made Dawn stop abusing the fish.

Will shot an uneasy glance at her; hastily, she went back to preparing the food and pretending she wasn't listening. He stood and moved closer to his friend, squatting low beside his chair, and murmured, "Jack, what's wrong? What's happened?"

Behind Dawn, there was silence, and she strained her ears even more to make sure she wouldn't miss anything.

"Women," Jack groaned dramatically. "Will, you've no idea how I admire your ability to live with three of the pernicious things."

"Four," Dawn snapped before she remembered she wasn't supposed to be hearing this, even as she secretly marveled at his use—correct, no less-- of a fifty-cent word.

"There are far more disagreeable lots in life, Jack," Will replied, amusement in his voice.

"Still, for your own safety of mind, let's hope this next one's a boy, shall we?" His voice was muffled, and Dawn glanced over her shoulder to see him rubbing his face, smearing the kohl halfway to his hairline. "If having to deal with Anamaria as captain of the _Erfzonde_ weren't enough, Giselle is determined to make an honest man of me."

Dawn's puzzled rumination of that statement was interrupted by Will's burst of laughter. "She wants to marry you?" With a thump, Will sat back heavily on the floor, eyes dancing with merriment. "_She_? Wants to _marry_? _You_? I thought you said Giselle would be the last to want to marry, Jack?"

"I thought she was," Jack replied mournfully, and Dawn had to bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud as she placed the sandwiches on tin plates and cut them in half. "But she said that she might as well have me name to go along with the wifely duties she's undertaken since coming aboard the _Pearl_."

Will sighed gustily. "Well, I told you it was a mistake to take her on," he said, a tinge of reproach in his voice. "You know it never ends well, consorting with her type of woman."

"But, dear Will, I am that type of man," Jack replied lazily, tattered lace cuff falling back at his expansive gesture to reveal a lean brown hand with a gaudy ring on each finger. "Fine ladies like your Elizabeth might be content with a blacksmith, but who'll forebear a pirate?"

Dawn plunked the food onto the table. "Enough of the pity party," she said. "Grub's on."

Will eyed his sandwich with a somewhat jaundiced eye, requiring full disclosure of its contents before so much as touching it, but Jack fell to his meal like a starving creature and was licking his fingertip to dab up the last crumbs before Will and Dawn were halfway done with their own.

"Want another?" she asked mildly, too accustomed to watching Xander eat to be amazed or disgusted by his appetite.

"Yes, please," Jack replied, his smile rendered somewhat less angelic by the gold tooth's gleam. His second sandwich met the same fate as the first, and he sat back on the bench with a pleased expression as Dawn and Will finished their own.

"Why haven't you eaten in two days?" Dawn asked him, gathering the plates for the washbasin.

"Takes me a while to get here without being seen," he replied. "Can't rightly have the Pearl sail into Kingston harbour, _savez_, so I rowed ashore to the far side of the peninsula and come the rest of the way by foot."

Theo had shown Dawn a map of Jamaica so she was aware of how much of a distance it was. She was impressed in spite of herself. "You must have wanted to see your goddaughters a whole lot to walk for two days without food," she said, softening.

Jack beamed a smile at her, but Will rolled his eyes. "Don't go thinking kindly of him," he said severely. "It's his own fault for not bringing provisions with him."

Jack looked wounded, but rallied admirably. "I was that eager to visit you and yours," he protested.

Dawn's ear, keen from so many years of being Buffy's easily-kidnapped sister, discerned the sound of the governor's carriage pulling to a stop in front of the house.

"They're home," she said, and went to open the door.

"How'd she hear that?" Jack asked Will sotto-voce as the girls entered with their customary noise and motion.

"I don't know," Will replied. "She has uncanny hearing and sight. She's even," he leaned closer to Jack's ear, "rather good with a blade."

"Is that so?" Jack gazed at her with speculation. "That's… interesting."

"Uncle Jack!" cried Isabel upon entering the house, and flung herself at him. Standing, he caught her easily in his arms, swinging her round before plunking her down and turning to her sister.

"How's my bonny lass?" he asked, bending to her level and allowing her to circle his neck with her arms. Straightening quickly, arms akimbo, he lurched around and whooped as Margaret clung to him, giggling madly.

"He's the only one who can get her to laugh like that," Elizabeth said quietly, flashing a smile at Dawn. "What do you think of him?"

"He snuck into the house, strong-armed me down the stairs, implied he'd shoot me if I tried to leave, and begged me to cook him food," Dawn recounted. "Then he ruined your knitting, stared down my dress, and ate everything in sight."

"Ah, so nothing unusual, then," Elizabeth replied easily before fixing him with a mock glare. "Jack, you scoundrel."

"As always, madam," he returned, wrestling Margaret to the side so he could lean in and peck her on the cheek.

A knock on the door interrupted whatever Will had been about to say. The adults froze.

"Expecting company?" Jack asked softly.

"No," Will replied, apprehensive. Before Dawn could blink, Jack had slunk to the corner and slid between the space between the cupboard and the wall.

"Isabel, tiptoe to the window and see who it is," Dawn urged, and the little girl complied.

"It's Lieutenant Groves and some marines," she replied in a whisper. Both Elizabeth and Will looked to Dawn.

"I don't know!" she protested. "I didn't know he was coming today!"

The tension coiled more thickly around them. "They must be here for Jack, then," Will said grimly. "If I heard about the Pearl, then word will have spread to the fort by now."

Movement, a flash of red, out the back window caught Dawn's attention. She craned her neck to see Murtogg and Mullroy prowling around the Turners' back garden. Absently, she hoped they weren't treading on her painstakingly tended garden.

"They're in the back, too," she said. "No exit there."

Will's eyes flicked toward the brace of swords over the mantle. Elizabeth gasped, one hand coming to rest protectively on Margaret's head and the other on her belly.

"Will, no. Not with the girls here."

The door knocker sounded again, louder this time. "Mrs. Turner, Miss Summers?" called Theo's voice. "If I may have a word?"

Dawn glanced to the corner and met Jack's eye. He somehow looked both strained and languid at the same time, taut with apprehension and fluidly ready to bolt if necessary, and put her so strongly in mind of a trapped animal that she knew she had to do something.

"Leave it to me," Dawn said, gaze holding Jack's. "I'll get rid of him." His face eased a little, tight muscles around his eyes relaxing as he gave her a tiny nod and wiggled further back into the shadows.

Dawn straightened, smoothed her suddenly damp palms down the front of her skirt, and strode to the door.

"Hi!" she said brightly to Theo upon opening it. "What're you doing here in the middle of the day?"

"We have had word that a certain ship has been spotted in the vicinity of Kingston harbor, Miss Summers," Theo said, all proper and official. "There's a good chance Jack Sparrow has been or will be here. I'm afraid we'll have to search the premises."

Dawn forced a laugh; even to her ears, it didn't sound too fake. "You think Jack Sparrow's here?" she asked, feigning amazement. "If only. I've heard so much about him, I'm dying to meet him. You know, pirate, notorious rake and womanizer… he sounds like a real character. Hey, is it true that he once impersonated a priest?"

She continued to ramble on, calling upon all the scandalized whispers of the town's women when they gossiped about "that girl who lived with the Turners" and thought she couldn't hear.

"…and I've been so bored lately that I'd be glad to meet a real pirate." She aimed a sunny smile at him, and predictably, he softened.

"Even if he hasn't been here yet, he could come by later. Despite his… agreeable mien, Jack Sparrow is a dangerous man. I doubt he would scruple to use you to affect an escape."

"Scruple, schmoople," Dawn said, waving a negligent hand. "I can handle myself."

He grinned down at her. "That, I do not doubt," he said, "but I think I will station Mullroy and Murtogg here anyway." He raised his voice slightly. "Misters Mullroy and Murtogg, may I impose upon you to stand watch?"

The two hurried around from the rear garden and stood at alert. "Yes, sir," they hastened to say.

Dawn's heart sank, but she made herself chirp, "Oh, good! I've missed those guys. And I think my poker skills are getting rusty, Will and Elizabeth are no challenge at all."

He caught up her hand and pressed a quick kiss to the back of it. "Try not to sharp them out of too much of their wages, if you don't mind," he teased.

"Not promising anything," Dawn replied with a flirtatious glance. "Now, go on, go back to the fort. I've got things to do."

Theo released her hand and stepped back. "I will see you tonight, after supper, then."

Dawn paused in the act of shutting the door. "Oh, will you?" she blurted, then composed herself for another weak smile. "Great!"

He touched the brim of his hat, then turned and led the rest of the marines away as Murtogg took position by the door .

"Hi, guys," she said distractedly, watching Theo's progression in the direction of the fort. "I'm really busy today—laundry, you know how it is—but maybe later I'll have some time for a few hands, ok?"

Murtogg bobbed his head obligingly. "We'll be here, miss," he said, "me by the front, Mullroy by the back." He squared his shoulders determinedly. "That pirate won't be able to get by us."

She couldn't help but smile at his cheerful, homely face. With a nod at Mullroy, who went to resume his post at the rear entrance, she closed the door softly and sagged back against it.

The Turner family stood just where she'd left them, staring mutely at her, and she lifted bleak eyes to them and Jack as he emerged from the corner.

"We've got an honour guard," she said flatly, "and Theo's coming back in a few hours." She turned to Jack. "We've go to get you out of here before then, because while I know I can fool those two, I'm not sure I can keep Theo blissfully ignorant."

"Theo, is it?" Jack speculated aloud, coming forward. "Someone's got herself a beau."

"Stuff it," Dawn growled. "We're going through this for you, you could at least not act like a jerk."

Jack put on an appropriately contrite mien, hands in prayer position below his chin, and bowed slightly. "My apologies." Somehow, she didn't quite believe he meant it.

* * *

. 

After hurriedly cobbling together a rough plan, they went forward with their day. Will reluctantly returned to the smithy, and Jack snuck upstairs with Isabel and Margaret when Mullroy stepped into the outhouse for a moment.

When she was sure that Jack was securely hidden, Dawn poked her head out the door. "Want to play some poker?" She grinned engagingly at Murtogg.

"Oh, we couldn't!" he protested. "We have to stand watch!" He straightened his spine a smidgen more, proud of his job and determined to do it well, and Dawn felt her spirits slip even lower. She considered him a friend, and she was purposefully going to trick him to help Jack escape.

"Well," she reasoned, "you're here to protect us, right?" At his nod, she continued. "If you're inside the house with us, how much more protected can we get?"

"That's fine," Mullroy said, coming round the corner of the house while mopping his face with a handkerchief. His broad face was florid from the day's heat and sun, and he looked tired. "I could murder a pint right now."

Murtogg didn't look entirely convinced, but when Dawn swung the door wide, revealing the cool and dark interior of the house, he caved. "I wouldn't say no to getting off my feet," he allowed at last.

Elizabeth smiled at them from her chair, welcoming them while apologizing for not getting up. "This time of day, my ankles decide they want to be twice their normal size," she said ruefully as they sat where Dawn indicated, which just happened to be facing away from where Jack was to make his escape.

Both men blushed at the racy mention of such things and gratefully hid their faces by bowing them over the mugs of ale Dawn poured for them. She fetched the playing cards and, seating herself, began to shuffle.

"Normal rules, boys?" she queried, dealing. "5-Card Draw, deuces are wild?"

They mumbled agreement, already focused on the cards the were receiving. To lull them into a sense of complacency, Dawn was careful to let them win a few hands each. _Thank God for Spike,_ she thought, and not for the first time. His teaching her much of what he knew of poker and cheating had been invaluable on multiple occasions, but never more so than now.

Being able to deftly control exactly how the games progressed calmed the butterflies in her stomach, and thus when there was a flash of white outside the back window, signaling Jack's descent via rope-made-from-bed sheets, her face betrayed no secret.

Dawn's eyes flicked to Elizabeth; the other woman had seen it, too. Dawn couldn't watch, but had to give a convincing performance as she played and chatted with the men, and it wasn't until a good five minutes later that she was able to glance Elizabeth's way once more.

Elizabeth gave the tiniest of nods, signaling that Jack was safely away, and Dawn played out that hand with distinct relief. When it was over—she felt safe in allowing herself the win, at last—she stretched a little and stood.

"Time for me to make dinner," she said. They stood right away, knowing that was their cue to depart for their stations fore and aft of the house.

Dawn fetched the girls from upstairs and was bemused to find that a goodly portion of their hair had been woven with trinkets she recognized as having most recently been worn by a certain pirate captain—commodore—whatever.

"Can't trust him not to corrupt them for five minutes," Elizabeth said, laughing at the sight of her children, their formerly neatly-brushed and curled hair now matted into dreadlocks bearing beads, coins from distant lands, and brightly coloured feathers.

Dawn said nothing, but started dinner and went about her usual chores in an effort to take her mind off of what she'd done. The duplicity of her actions was pulling at her, tearing in several directions at once, and rather than helping, having the time to brood over helping Jack was making her feel absolutely terrible.

She owed James Norrington respect and loyalty, for all he'd done for her after she was stranded here in the 17th century as well as the fact that he was almost-sort of-not quite her brother-in-law. She was aware that Jack Sparrow was his particular nemesis, and helping the pirate to escape was a direct betrayal of James' friendship.

Then there was Lieutenant Groves. Theo had been a faithful and reliable suitor, if not exactly ardent. He'd trusted her, and she'd used her power over him to lie and deceive. Same with Mullroy and Murtogg; she knew how to manipulate them, and she'd deliberately used that knowledge so Jack could escape without notice.

Dawn's stomach twisted with disgust for herself, and she wondered how she'd be able to look at any of them in the face again. In the middle of putting away the last of the laundry in the armoire, she paused, sitting heavily on the edge of Will's and Elizabeth's bed.

The problem was that she didn't _only_ see James' and Theo's point of view—she'd met the man, and seen his interaction with the Turners first-hand. Yes, Jack Sparrow was a wanted fugitive, a dangerous criminal, a pirate who survived by preying on lawful merchants. He was also a dear friend of the family that had taken her in when she had nowhere else to go, and a charming rogue who played dress-up with his goddaughters, for whom he seemed to hold great affection.

If he were caught, he'd probably be executed as soon as the scaffold could be set up (or maybe James would just fling a rope over the nearest tree branch). And Dawn didn't think she could bear to see the Turner family's grief if that were to happen.

Then she remembered the thrill she'd felt skittering up her spine each time he'd touched her, and the lazy appreciation in those black eyes of his when he'd looked at her, and knew that she'd feel a certain amount of remorse for an entirely different reason.

"I suck," Dawn moaned, flopping backward on the bed and pulling a pillow to cover her face. It was all Spike's fault; he'd taught her how to look for and appreciate the well-hidden positive traits in morally ambiguous people. If he weren't already dead and gone, she'd have found a way to kill him for complicating her life.

"Um," came Will's muffled voice. "Are you unwell?" He pulled up one corner of the pillow and peered at her, his face grave and concerned, but trying to remain cheerful for everyone else's sake. Typical Will, in other words. "There are far more efficient ways to do yourself mischief, you know."

She flung off the pillow and stared at the painted beams at the ceiling. "I know."

He watched her a moment, then shut the door and leaned against it. "You're feeling conflicted because of helping Jack at the expense of Norrington and the others."

Dawn hated how canny he was sometimes. "Yeah," she admitted. "Very conflicted."

He was silent a moment. Then, "Jack once told me that there were only two rules worth concerning yourself over: what a man can do, and what a man can't do."

She propped herself up on her elbows so she could look him in the face as he spoke. "And?"

"And," Will continued, "it seems to me that you had a choice to make. You could have done nothing to help Jack, and let justice run its course. But I doubt you are able to see a man taken away to his death, now that you know what measure of grief will result."

There was a pensiveness to his face that had Dawn sitting up and peering more closely. "Sounds like you're speaking from experience."

He flashed her his quick smile. "That I do," he admitted. "Jack was but two minutes from swinging. I knew that my actions might well bring me to share in his fate, and like you, I could have said nothing… done nothing… but also like you, I could not stand by and watch him die. Not without at least trying to stop it, no matter the cost."

Will seemed almost lost in the memory. "Do you know," he continued, "the moment I knew for sure that my love for Elizabeth was true and right?"

Dawn shook her head, not speaking for fear of interrupting his unprecedented chattiness.

"When she took my hand and placed herself beside me, between Jack and Norrington and her father. Oh," he laughed, waving his hand at her expression of surprise, "I knew I loved her, but some will always say it was because of her breeding and wealth and beauty.

"No, I knew my love for her was fitting and deserved because she had a sense of duty, of fairness, of conviction that far outshone those outward trappings. She sacrificed all that she was, all she had hoped to be, to save the life of one dirty, lecherous, drunken pirate."

"And die by the side of a poor, common, penniless blacksmith if it came to that," Dawn added quietly.

His eyes lit up. "And that," he agreed. "That she would see, as clearly as I myself, how much we owed him… that, guilty or not, deserving or not, 'twould be a pity to see that irrepressible flame doused… 'twas clear as day to me that we were suited to each other."

"That's so romantic," Dawn said, sighing.

"Romantic, yes," Elizabeth said from the doorway, and they turned to see her leaning heavily against it, hand affixed to the small of her back. "Not immensely practical, but romantic—oh, my, yes."


End file.
